


Draculoids Will Never Hurt You

by sassbandit, were_duck



Series: Draculoids-verse [2]
Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Bandom Big Bang, Big Bang, Dystopia, Evil Corporations, M/M, Multi, Origin Story, Threesome - M/M/Other, killjoys, polyfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 93,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassbandit/pseuds/sassbandit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/were_duck/pseuds/were_duck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard hates his job in the art department at BLI. The only good part of his day is hanging with the smokers downstairs, especially Frank, who shares Gerard’s frustration and rebellion against the corporate norms. But when Frank is fired, Gerard quits his job too, and with Mikey’s and Ray’s help, sets off to find Frank, irritate Korse, and turn art into revolution.</p><p>This is an origin story, tracing the lives of the Fabulous Killjoys from their ordinary office jobs to their desert showdown against Korse and the draculoids, as shown in the Na na na video. We started writing it a week after the first Danger Days trailer video came out, thinking it would be about ten thousand words, and it got a little out of hand. Um, sorry?</p><p>Note: Our <a href="http://sassbandit.dreamwidth.org/17549.html">Big Bang Master Post</a> contains links to the fanart and fanmixes created for this fic. We've also posted the art inline with the story here. All three pieces are by kidsxheores.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_The night before they ride out, Frank draws the spider on Gerard's hip, using a black sharpie he picked up at a shitswap two weeks ago in exchange for a handful of AAAs. He presses his face to the drawing, smelling the sharp fumes against Gerard's skin, the mixed smells of solvent and sweat and dust and come._

 _Gerard rolls over toward him, and Frank lifts his head and falls back with a grin. He holds onto the pen for just a moment, making Gerard tug it from his fingers before he'll let it go. Gerard straddles him, kneeling, and looks down at his own hip, the spider upside down from his point of view, before he looks at Frank. When he does, his look is appraising, thoughtful. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and tucks it behind his ear. There's a crease of concentration between his eyebrows as he uncaps the marker._

 _Frank has tattoos all over his body, ink scattered here and there in no particular order. Gerard remembers when it was all unknown, back before any of this started. Now he knows every piece of it, from the Halloween pumpkin on Frank's back to the spider on his hand, Frank's life charted out on his skin._

 _It's easier than a blank sheet, Gerard thinks — he doesn't have to draw out something new from the void, but just fill in the spaces, finish the story._

 _He draws the dome of the city and the highway and the diner and the Joshua trees. He draws the crash queens and the zonerunners and the radio waves arcing between everything. He draws the crowd at The Pit, with their hands raised up, screaming. And on Frank's back, avatars for each of the gang, Party Poison and Kobra Kid and Jet Star and Show Pony and Max, all surrounding Frank's pumpkin, crowded close together so there's no bare skin at all between them._

 _The marker leaves firm black lines, sharp-edged, definite. Frank giggles when Gerard draws down his side._

 _"Tickles."_

 _"I'll tickle you," Gerard threatens, but he shifts and starts drawing on Frank's lower back, lines and whorls alongside the base of his spine, curling down over his flank. A draculoid rises out of the ink, masked and fanged; Gerard draws Gabe in his furry dog mask shooting it down. Frank twists around to see what he's doing._

 _"Is that Gabe?" he asks_

 _"I guess so."_

 _"You drew Gabe on my ass?"_

 _"It's your thigh."_

 _"You drew Gabe on my thigh?"_

 _"Shut up," Gerard says. It's easier to draw than to talk about it. The draculoids are going down, dead dead dead. He draws a pile of drac corpses with Korse on top with a smoking hole in his chest, then he feels bad for putting Korse on Frank's skin at all. To make up for it, Gerard draws the Trans Am on Frank's other thigh, then surrounds it with an army of zombies._

* * *

The only place to smoke is the alleyway behind the building, with the door of the emergency stairwell propped open and the security camera broken.

Gerard remembers back before they moved to Battery City, when everyone used to smoke out front on the pavement, huddled into their coats against the New York winter. The sidewalk had been littered with butts despite the sand-filled can the management provided, and anyone who'd visited had had to run the smokers' gauntlet before they could get in through the front door. There are fewer of them now: a handful of holdouts from the old days who'd come west after the Better Living Industries merger, a few others who'd been around almost as long and somehow managed to avoid CorpHealth's anti-smoking campaigns and keep the habit.

These days there's just a sparse cluster of regulars who come out on their breaks, three times a day, to stand around aimlessly sucking in nicotine and shooting the shit before they have to hit their desks again. Aiden and Josh and Maia and Vivian and Frank. Gerard doesn't even like any of them except Frank. He really likes Frank, though, even if they're just smoking buddies, even if Gerard doesn't really know anything about him. He doesn't even know what department Frank works in. Not the art department, and definitely nothing customer-facing. He wishes Frank worked in the art department. That might make it suck less.

Gerard comes out for a smoke on Wednesday afternoon and finds Frank already down there. He's sitting against the wall, knees drawn up, drawing on his hand while a cigarette hangs from his lip.

"Hey," says Gerard. "Got a light?" He drops and sits cross-legged on the ground next to Frank. Frank pulls his knees in to give him room, and hands him a lighter from the pocket of his hoodie. Gerard likes that Frank never wears the regulation clothes. Gerard doesn't either.

"Thanks, man."

They smoke in silence, Gerard picking at the cracked rubber around the edge of his sneakers with one hand, cigarette in the other. He's wearing black nail polish that's chipping away. Frank stubs out his butt and examines the artwork on his hand. Gerard watches out of the corner of his eye.

"What are you drawing?" Gerard asks.

Frank holds it up so Gerard can see that it's a spider, all long angular legs from wrist to knuckles and a segmented body. "A spider," he says.

"Cool," Gerard says, leaning in to look closer. "Is it, like... a metaphor or something?"

Frank shrugs. "Spiders freak me out. So I figured, face the thing you fear, right?" He twists his hand around and stares at it, as if daring the spider to become three-dimensional and jump out at him.

Gerard nods. "That's great. That's... yeah. Face the thing you fear." He nods again, quickly. "Are you gonna get it as a tattoo?" He can see ink under Frank's cuffs, just peeping out when he moves, but he's never had a chance to check any of it out properly. He wonders what Management thinks of that.

"I don't know," Frank says. "Maybe."

Thursday morning, Aiden and Vivian are in the alley when Gerard comes down. Vivian works in product development and wears a knee-length grey skirt-suit and giggles behind her hand when Aiden makes lame jokes. Gerard tries to ignore them.

Thursday afternoon it's Josh, who tries to greet Gerard with some kind of complicated fist-bump thing, and then has nothing to say, though he looks like he wants to ask why Gerard's wearing a red tie when the corporate dress code specifies monochrome only. Gerard wishes Frank was there. He wants to tell him about the idea he had for a comic book.

Frank's not there Friday either. Gerard's having a shitty day, and all he wants to do is sit on the ground next to Frank and hide behind his sunglasses and not have to say anything.

"Seen Frank?" Gerard asks Josh. He's worried about him.

"Nah, dude," says Josh. "I think he's out sick or something."

Gerard sits down alone and smokes with his eyes closed. Makes sense, he thinks. Frank gets sick sometimes, though usually he spends a week coughing and sniffling before he takes any time off.

He sneaks out again right after lunch, because he doesn't think he can make it through another two hours of fucking packaging design without nicotine, and because he thinks maybe Frank will miraculously be there, and then he'll be able to put aside the knot of anxiety forming in his stomach.

Gerard hates his job so much, and it's just been getting worse. This morning they had a department-wide meeting where he had to sit through fucking Korse giving an hour long presentation about the new creative strategy that looked exactly like the old creative strategy. Creative, ha. Gerard actually knew Korse back when he could use that word without irony, but now Korse is 100% BLI, with his stupid grey suit and his stupid meetings and his minimalist nihilist bullshit. Times fucking change.

There's nobody in the alley when Gerard gets there, and the door almost slams behind him and locks him out. He catches it just in time and smokes leaning against the doorjamb to prop it open, not giving a fuck if his smoke trails inside the building.

If he could find another job he would, but it's not as if there are that many options. BLI's about all there is these days. At least they pay okay, keep him in art supplies, and seem to be letting him get away with the smoking and the dress code violations for now. He's heard it's getting worse outside the city, in the zones. It's better, safer, to have CorpHousing and climate control. At least that's what he keeps telling himself.

He sighs and stubs out his butt on the pavement and heads back up to his desk, skirting past the grey-carpeted cubicles with his head down hoping nobody will comment on him taking a break. They're all hard at work, though, heads down working on BLI product designs and corporate communications and the latest city-wide poster campaign for Secretary Sato's brand awareness initiative.

This afternoon Gerard's meant to be working on the packaging for some kind of educational game. He pulls up the product spec on his screen and skims through it. "Standard high-contrast design" — BLI-speak for "black and white, again". What sort of fucked up toy is packaged in black and white? It doesn't even make sense, the same indistinguishable bland crap for everything from shoes to motor parts to the fucking pills they shove down everyone's throats.

He reads on. Oh, fucking great, they want different packaging for boys and girls, each using the "Better Living Core Symbol Vocabulary" which Gerard knows means "restroom style", stupid blobby girl-shapes and boy-shapes with circular heads and creepy smiling faces. He hates this shit. It makes him want to paint the packaging rainbow colors, or draw the girl-symbol with a dick or something. He stares at the palette. Black and white. Fuck. He reaches for his coffee mug. "Better Living," he mutters as he drains half of it.

A little before 2pm, Korse swans past with his laptop under his arm. "Gerard," he says, with a fake smile that can't quite hide the sneer underneath. "Brenda tells me you're working on the toy packaging project."

Gerard grunts. Brenda's his manager, and Korse is _her_ manager, and there's no reason Korse should even care what Gerard's working on except that he just likes to stop by every so often to remind Gerard that Korse is the Director of Global Brand Conformance and Gerard's just a peon. "I'd love to see how it's going," Korse says, then looks quickly at his phone and says, "I've got a meeting with the Secretary of Culture," he says. "I'll be back around four. Can we review your designs then?"

"Sure," says Gerard, despite the fact that he's still staring at a blank screen. "Have fun."

The minute Korse is gone Gerard opens a new canvas and starts to plot out a vector graphic of Frank's spider. He thinks he's got the body right, but the legs are harder. Something about the angles. He tweaks them, moving the joints around this way and that, but it just looks dead. The one on Frank's hand was better — alive somehow against his skin. That makes no fucking sense, but it's true anyway. He wishes Frank was here now, so he could check out his hand again. Or at least they could go for a smoke.

"Fuck it," he says to the screen, and pushes away from his desk. It's not break time, but Brenda won't notice. He rattles down the emergency stairs to the back alley, thinking that the first drag on a cigarette when he gets there will be the highlight of his shitty afternoon.

The alleyway is empty and he sucks the smoke into his lungs and holds it 'til his head spins, then breathes it out in a rush.

The door opens and he jumps, but it's only Josh. "Hey," Josh says. "Playing hooky?"

"Hey."

Josh lights up. "I found out what happened to Iero," he says.

"Frank?" Gerard feels his stomach drop. "What about him?"

"Got fired."

It takes a moment for him to process it, then he says, "Shit. Shit. How come?"

"Like I know. I thought you might." Gerard shakes his head. "Hey, what was with you guys anyway, with the ties and all that?" Josh waves his hand to indicate Gerard's dress code violation, the red tie against the black shirt. Frank had started wearing one too, just a couple of weeks ago, and it had made Gerard grin like an idiot to realize he wasn't the only one making an impotent gesture of _fuck you_ to the company.

Josh is waiting for an answer, but Gerard ignores him. "Shit," he says again.

"You alright, man?" Josh asks. "Hey, you need a pill?" He pulls a black-and-white CorpHealth pill bottle from his pocket and holds it out to him.

"No, fuck no," says Gerard, shaking his head emphatically, and Josh shrugs and takes one himself. Gerard throws his cigarette down and stamps it, then storms inside.

He doesn't have all that much stuff at his desk, so he just shoves it all into his backpack (a notebook full of doodles, a couple of action figures, a pair of earbud headphones, a weird squishy stress ball thing that Mikey gave him) then looks around to see if he's missed anything. He feels like he should make some kind of defiant gesture, but he doesn't know what. The monitor's bolted to its arm, it's not going anywhere... there's not even a fucking off switch, and crawling under the desk to unplug it just seems pathetic. "Fuck it," he says, and kicks his desk, then hops around for a bit because _ow_.

"Language, Gerard." Gerard spins around, and Korse is there, back from his meeting already and leaning against the corner of Gerard's cube in his stupid grey suit. "Going somewhere?" he asks, looking pointedly at Gerard's backpack.

"I'm going home," says Gerard.

"I thought we were going to meet," Korse says, infuriatingly calm. "I was looking forward to seeing that packaging design. Secretary Sato is very keen to see our efforts to improve children's brand awareness."

"The packaging design is stupid," Gerard says. "It's a _game_ , a _toy_. You can't just, just —" he waves his hands, looking for the words, ignoring the looks he's getting from the designers in the opposite cube. "It's for kids, you know? Kids? God, I can't believe you even think that's an okay design for a toy."

"Our corporate brand identity won —"

"Oh, _fuck_ your corporate brand identity," Gerard says, realizing he doesn't give a shit anymore, doesn't care that he's making a scene and people are prairie-dogging up over the cubicle walls to see what's going on. "I thought this — it was a joke, you _knew_ it was a joke, and now you won't even fucking admit it. Jesus, Korse, don't you even care what they're using it for? I can't believe I used to —" Korse just stands with his arms folded and raises an eyebrow at him. "I can't believe you used to be an artist," Gerard says, and pushes past him.

"This is not going to look good on your performance review," comes Korse's voice from behind him.

"I quit," Gerard shouts back at him, and keeps moving, out the door.

He takes the back stairs, part habit and part not wanting to go through the reception foyer where people will stare and wonder why he's leaving so early. Just by the service elevator, before the emergency exit, there's a cart full of supplies, recycling bags and paper towels and squeegees and a toolbox, and in amongst all the crap he sees a couple of cans of spraypaint. He grabs a can on the way past — it's a choice of black or white so he chooses black — and shoves it under his jacket.

In the back alley he lets the door slam behind him (he's never going back in there again) and drops his bag against the wall. He stands back for a moment, sizing up the flat white surface, and shakes the can, making it rattle shrilly in the silence.

The spider comes out perfect, six feet high and just how it should be, legs splayed out on either side, facing downward with its forelegs bent protectively in front of it, weird creepy little mandible things on its head, and a lightning bolt of negative space across its abdomen. It's right on the wall where Frank sat, showing Gerard the spider on his hand. Gerard thinks Frank would approve.

"Face the thing you fear," he says under his breath. He doesn't know what he fears, though; it's like he's numb. He throws the paint can down, grabs his bag, and runs.

* * *

Mikey gets home around eight, via the place with the good chow mein. "Hey, Gee, I got Chinese," he calls from the hallway as he dumps his bag, and pushes open the door to Gerard's room. Gerard's cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the end of his bed, surrounded by piles of crap, his backpack beside him spewing action figures. He's got a sketchpad open on his lap, but he puts it aside and looks up when Mikey comes in.

"Whatcha drawing?" Mikey asks.

"Spiders."

"Eugh," Mikey says. He hands Gerard one of the cardboard boxes and a pair of disposable chopsticks. "How's work?"

"I quit," Gerard says, and digs his chopsticks into his chow mein like he's stabbing it.

"Huh." Mikey figures he doesn't have to say anything; Gerard will tell him eventually, so he just eats his noodles until Gerard's ready.

"I need a soda," Gerard says, after a while. He pulls himself up off the floor and goes to get some, navigating the shit on his floor with practised ease. He comes back with two cans and hands one to Mikey, then folds down onto the floor again, can in one hand and chopsticks in the other.

"Four fucking years," Gerard says, lifting his can in a toast. Mikey lifts his and they clunk together. "Four fucking years," Gerard says again. "I guess I thought I could make a difference, do something that had some meaning, but it was all..." He sighs and stabs at his chow mein again and leaves the chopsticks standing there. "You remember when I was at school, that end of year show, before... before Korse went to work for BLI?"

Mikey nods, chewing. Like he could forget it. Gerard and Korse had been in art school together, Korse the senior student, a year ahead of Gerard in school and several more in age, with a sort of worldly cynicism that he'd fed into his art. Gerard had pretty much worshipped him, spent days painting with him and night after night staying at his studio, coming home all rumpled and looking like he hadn't slept. They'd worked on a piece together for the end of year show: a savage, satirical jab at corporate America's blandness. Gerard had thrown himself into it, pushing himself day and night, but it was Korse, as senior student, who'd got the credit for it.

"He was always a fucking douche," Gerard says. "Even before that. And he's still just the same. Motherfucker."

Mikey raises his eyebrows. It's the first time he's actually heard Gerard say so in as many words. At first it had been Korse-said-this and Korse-that, Gerard wide-eyed in admiration for his art, and then after Korse had won the student prize and taken a management-track job with Better Living Industries, Gerard had stopped talking about him altogether. Mikey would've been glad, except that Gerard had spent most of the next year withdrawn and uncommunicative, hiding in the basement working on his art, letting dirty laundry and empty vodka bottles and pill containers pile up all over the floor, only collapsing into bed to sleep when Mikey pulled him away from his work and curled up next to him.

Gerard had graduated eventually and got a job in New York, working on cartoons. And then everything had gone to shit and when the dust cleared, New York was in tatters and BLI had bought the company Gerard was working for, lock, stock, and barrel. Gerard and Mikey had transferred out west, Mikey taking a job with BLI Media so they could live in CorpHousing together. And Korse had been there, already a manager in BLI's art department. Gerard went to work every day, came home with bottles of pills from CorpHealth, and Mikey had just tried to make sure his brother mostly passed out in his bed and got out of it again in the morning, 'til Gerard finally managed to get his shit together. Mikey tries not to think too hard about any of that if he can help it.

"Yeah, well, you don't have to deal with him anymore," Mikey says, in case Gerard needs reminding.

"Yeah." He scrubs at his face. "Fuck. You know what he wanted today? Packaging for toys, fucking black and white. And separate designs for boys and girls, like restroom symbols. The girl's a triangle and the boy's a," he waves his hands around, "you know. I don't think he even realizes anymore, like, he's totally blanked out that he ever used to do anything different."

"So he's a sell-out," Mikey says.

"We're all sell-outs," Gerard replies, forlornly. "Fuck, Mikey, I can't believe I lasted so long." Mikey can't believe it either, but Gerard had this weird dogged determination.

Gerard goes quiet again, staring at the carpet. Mikey waits, and eventually Gerard says, "They fired Frank."

"Frank with the tie?"

"Yeah," says Gerard, his voice sounding rough. "I don't even know what he did. He was just, you know. A guy I knew. I just." Mikey waits, while Gerard runs his hands through his already-chaotic hair. "That dude had more integrity in his little fucking finger than Korse ever had in his whole fucking life."

Mikey rolls his eyes at that. "You didn't have to keep working with him," he points out.

"I know. I just... I thought it might get better, if I stuck it out. Or that maybe I'd be able to change things, _make_ it better. I'm an idiot."

"No you're not." Mikey reaches out and puts an arm around his brother's shoulder, leaning in to him. "I can't believe you used to date that asshole."

"Shut up," Gerard groans, and pulls his knees up to his face and buries himself behind his folded arms. "Fuck, Mikey, tell me you brought something good home. _Please_."

The drive's buried deep in Mikey's pocket so he squirms around to dig it out, then lets go of Gerard long enough to plug it into the TV. This stuff's the only thing that makes _his_ shitty BLI job worth doing. He's not like Gerard, he doesn't need to change the world, but at least ten hours a day pulling content violations off the tubes gets him some kind of under-the-table payment, even if it's only a thumb drive full of remix every couple of days. He loads up the first one, a mashup of a bunch of classic slasher flicks set to Anthrax, and Gerard perks up beside him, muttering, "Cool."

The next one's some kind of anime compilation, and the one after that's a hilariously bad Kirk/Spock vid, all tender glances and soaring violins. Mikey's about to say something snide when he notices Gerard's got tears in his eyes, so he just waits for the next one (Taiwanese political thing, he thinks, though he can't understand a word of it) and the one after that (Canadian beer ad parody) before muting the sound and saying, "So what are you going to do?"

Gerard shrugs elaborately, a whole body shrug. "I don't know. I just wanna... get out of the city, drive out into the desert and... do art or something. Huge, stupid fucking art." He waves his arms around, as if to indicate the hugeness of his artistic ambitions.

"You don't have a car. And you melt in the heat."

Gerard drops his arms. "Fuck." He holds his hand out and makes grabby motions with his fingers. "Gimme another egg roll?"

* * *

The problem with company housing, Frank realizes as soon as he leaves BLI, is that if your ass is fired, then your ass is equally homeless at the same time.

It's a good thing he's got Bob to save his sorry, fired, homeless ass. Bob's a pretty chill sort of guy, and he's got a non-corp apartment just outside the city limits in Zone 1. It's not a bad neighborhood. It's hotter and dirtier than in the city itself, but as long as the windows are closed and the A/C's on it's fine. Bob's hardly ever there, anyway — he works as a contract sound tech, moving between jobs for different parts of BLI, and he's always travelling — so he doesn't mind Frank colonizing his living room and his remote control for a while.

He spends the first week after he's fired sitting on Bob's sofa with an afghan wrapped around him like a cape, watching cartoons. They're so fucking stupid, but Frank can't stop watching, zoned out and red-eyed, hours and hours of stupid animals in pants selling BLI crap. It's like they make them hypnotic on purpose. He can feel his brain rotting, watching endless Mousekat repeats, but it's not as if he's using it for anything, so whatever. Cartoons are cartoons, and they're just the kind of brainlessness he needs right now.

Anyway, cartoons are better than stewing over what a fuck-up he is. He hated his job, sure, but pushing spreadsheets around for the facilities group was better than being unemployed and homeless. He hopes whoever has to take over the spreadsheets fucking hates them too. He doesn't fool himself that they'll miss him for any other reason, though. The people he worked with were all assholes. He kinda misses the smokers though.

Bob's away for a few days on a job, but when he comes back on Friday night and finds Frank still on the sofa surrounded by empty chip packets and used coffee mugs with cigarette butts in them, he frowns.

"Enough cartoons," he says, and hits the off switch on the remote.

Frank blinks and stares at him. "Hey Bob," he says.

"When did you last leave the house, man?"

"Uh," says Frank.

"Get dressed," says Bob, heading for his room and calling back over his shoulder. "I'm taking you out."

"Where are we going?" asks Frank when he's showered and pulled on some jeans and gelled his hair and done his eyeliner. "Because I can't really afford much, you know." He's been trying to avoid doing the calculations, but his savings aren't going to last long, even if Bob's letting him camp out rent-free.

"The Pit," says Bob. "Don't worry, I'll buy you a beer."

"You're a prince, man." Frank grins and hugs him.

The Pit's an off-the-network dive not far from Bob's place, just near one of the border tunnels that leads under the dome and into Bat City proper, and when Bob hands him his beer and Frank takes a sip and listens to the band getting ready, he starts to feel pretty good for the first time since he got fired.

"I'll buy you one when I get another job," he tells Bob, speaking up over the band's soundcheck. "Gotta be plenty of places that want a scrawny asshole who got fired from the shittiest job at BLI, right?"

"Yeah, they'll be beating down the door. Have you applied for anything?"

Frank shrugs. "It'd have to be off the books. I don't think they're gonna give me a reference."

Fucking BLI. He'd done good work, even if it was boring as fuck, and he was reliable, at least when he wasn't off work sick. But he'd come in that last morning to find himself locked out of the system, and Carson had called him into a conference room, and told him he was being let go for Corporate Standards violations, whatever the fuck that meant. Turned out that Frank's dress code abuse was making people _uncomfortable_. "It's the eyeliner, Frank," Carson had said. "People are gonna think you're a pansy or something." Frank remembers when that sort of discrimination was illegal, but BLI doesn't seem to let that bother them. He grimaces to himself, and takes a swig of his beer.

The band gets going and Frank heads out into the crowd. Before long he's thrashing around and throwing himself at people and shouting along with what lyrics he can make out. Trust Bob to know what Frank needed; he can't believe he wasted a whole week watching cartoons. The band is kicking it, they've got some really solid songs and their drummer is the shit. Frank's sweating like he hasn't in ages. This is _awesome_.

When the set's over, he dodges through the crowd back to where Bob's sitting at the bar and jumps him from behind, clambering on his back.

"This is the best," he says, ruffling Bob's hair.

Bob reaches up a hand to flatten his hair again, but doesn't shake Frank off, so Frank just hangs on piggy-back style and reaches past him to grab his drink and take a swig from it.

"This is him?" asks the guy behind the bar, and Frank realizes Bob was talking to him before Frank jumped him.

"Yeah," says Bob. "Hey monkey-boy, Brian knows someone who's looking for a dish-washer. You interested?"

Frank clambers down as quickly as he got up, and tries to look more like someone who needs a job and less like an idiot. "Hell yeah," he says. "I mean, yes! Work is good. I like work."

* * *

Mikey sits in a cubicle all day and reviews flagged videos, an endless parade of them picked up by BLI's automated bots and loaded into a queue for him to process. It's boring, but he just zones out and does it on autopilot. Occasionally something cool comes up, and he files away a copy of it to transfer to his encrypted flash drive before he goes home. Sometimes there's a video with a red flag, so he marks it for escalation to the enforcement arm. That's about as exciting as things get at BLI Media, but Mikey doesn't mind too much.

The break room has a vending machine so he grabs himself a soda and sits down at one of the rectangular white tables and pulls out his phone to text Gerard. _how u doin want nething?_ he types and hits send. He drinks half his soda before Gee texts back, _candy_ , and then a second text straight after: _those gummy things_.

He looks up as Ray comes into the break room. "Hi Mikey," Ray says, cheerfully. Ray's a pretty cheerful guy.

"Hey," Mikey says, and skooches his chair over so Ray can grab the one next to him.

"Working hard? Or hardly working?"

Mikey rolls his eyes. "Was that ever funny?" he says.

"It was in 1953. Hey." He waggles his eyebrows and nudges Mikey with his elbow, and Mikey puts out his hand under the table. Ray slips a drive into his palm. It's possibly the least smooth handoff ever, but there aren't actually any cameras in here, so whatever. Ray's a dork, but that's fine with Mikey. It makes him about ten times more interesting than anyone else in BLI Media.

Mikey pockets the drive. "Thanks," he says.

There are three more hours left 'til he can go home, but Mikey just zones out through most of it. When the clock in the corner of his desktop ticks over to 18:00, he's out of there.

Lately he's got in the habit of taking a side-trip into Zone 1 on the way home, picking up snacks or smokes, or going out of his way to find comics or stupid little plastic toys from Mexico from one of the shops on the other side of the city border where the pristine streets give way to cracked pavements and disorganized jumbles of buildings, and the air gets hotter and starts to tickle the back of his throat. Today he goes way out of his way, hunting through half a dozen bodegas 'til he finds sour gummy skulls, and buys two bags of them and one of dinosaurs.

Gerard's asleep when he gets home, so Mikey just turns on the TV and opens a bag of candy skulls and starts eating them. Pretty soon Gerard wakes up and joins him, hair sticking out crazily. He smells kind of rank. Not that Mikey minds, but it worries him that his brother seems to have completely abandoned what little concept of personal hygiene he ever had. Mikey suspects he's subsisting on cigarettes, caffeine, and condiments.

"What'd you do today," he asks during an ad break.

Gerard shrugs. "Nothing much."

As far as Mikey can tell, Gerard spends most of his time sleeping or reading or watching TV. Mikey wouldn't worry, only Gerard's stopped drawing, and that's not good. Like, he draws, but just frustrated little doodles, jagged black spiders on the corners of the _BC Times_ , nothing else. Mikey remembers the last time that happened, and he wishes he didn't.

"We should go out on the weekend," Mikey says.

"Where to?"

"I dunno. Just out."

"Maybe," says Gerard, but he doesn't sound enthusiastic.

They sit there, Gerard in his spaceship pajamas and Mikey still in his work clothes, and flip channels 'til it gets to that time when there's nothing but infomercials and Mikey has to go to sleep if he's going to get up for work again in the morning.

It's the same every day, for weeks.

"Uh, Gee," Mikey says when he comes home from work one night and finds Gerard is watching _From Dusk Till Dawn_. Judging by his bloodshot eyes and the pile of Tarantino films strewn over the coffee table, he's already gone through all Mikey's favorites.

Gerard doesn't even look away from the cheesefest onscreen. Mikey sighs and flops down on the couch too. Fuck. They watch Salma Hayek do her snake dance, and Mikey wishes he hadn't missed the beginning of the movie, when they were on the road in that fucking cool car. "We should go on a road trip or something, Gee. Out in the desert, like you said, remember?"

"We don't have a car. Plus, there are vampires out there, Mikey. I don't know if I could keep you safe."

Mikey starts to laugh, then stops and glances over at his brother, because Gerard actually sounded kind of serious about that. He doesn't know what the fuck to do. "Gee, after BLI, no fucking vampires can touch you."

* * *

Ray diary's not exactly overflowing with social engagements, so when Mikey Way asks him to come over and watch videos at his house, he says yes straight away. Mikey's weird but cool, and he's got good taste in music, and Ray likes trying to make him laugh. Actually, Mikey's pretty much Ray's only friend at work, and Ray's pretty stoked that Mikey wants to be friends with him outside of work too. BLI is a secure job, but it's fucking lonely.

That's how Ray finds himself hanging out in Mikey's living room, eating pizza with his feet up on the table and watching fansubbed anime and uploading several gigs' worth of telenovelas he'd stumbled upon to their shared server, when Mikey's brother stumbles in.

Mikey had said he lived with his brother, but Ray's never seen him before. He's wearing ratty pajamas and a black hoodie, and he stops in the doorway and looks out from behind the mess of hair hanging in front of his face, his eyes going kind of wide at the pizza boxes and extra person in the room. "Uh, hi?" he says.

"Hey Gee, this is Ray," Mikey says, gesturing with the pizza. Ray worries he'll fling pizza sauce on the couch, but neither of the Way brothers seem particularly concerned.

"Hi," says Gerard.

"Ray works with me," Mikey says, "I mean, in the media group. He does music."

"Nice to meet you," Ray says, and sticks out his hand. Gerard shuffles over to shake it.

"Are you the metal guy?" Gerard asks, "With the Iron Maiden bootlegs?"

Ray takes a moment to worry about how many people Mikey's been telling about their illegal file-sharing. Gerard looks like he's smiling behind his hair, though, and Mikey looks completely unconcerned, so Ray decides to let it go.

"Yeah," he says. "Mikey hooked me up with some server space." He sees Gerard look him over, taking in his Metallica t-shirt.

"Metallica," Gerard says, rubbing blearily at his eyes, "would fucking kill you. I'm gonna get coffee. Coffeeeeee." He stumbles zombie-like towards the kitchen and comes back in a few minutes balancing three mugs precariously between his hands. Ray takes one, even though he doesn't usually drink caffeine this late. Seems like there's no beer in the house, though, so Ray just resigns himself to not sleeping.

By the time Gerard's sucked down a cup and a half of coffee and put away a piece of pizza as well, folded over Jersey-style, he's looking like he can actually string whole sentences together and hold a conversation. "So," he asks Ray, turning to look at him intently, "How do you feel about horror movies?"

Maybe it's the coffee or maybe it's some kind of weird Way brothers mental powers, but after about five hours of Evil Dead movies Ray's feeling more comfortable than he has in ages, giggling like an idiot at Gerard and Mikey's commentary. Gerard's pretty entertaining, and Ray likes the way they all crowd onto the sofa, Mikey's bony elbows sticking into Ray's ribs whenever he shifts around, and Gerard waving his cigarette in Ray's face. Ray likes it here, he thinks. It's much better than his own bare apartment. These guys are weird, but even though he doesn't really know them that well, he wants to. It's been a long time since things felt this loose in his chest.

That's probably why Ray ends up agreeing to a road-trip. He's not sure how the idea came up, but he thinks maybe Mikey suggested it first, then Ray mentioned he had a car, then Gerard started talking about _From Dusk Till Dawn_ , and they took a detour through _El Mariachi_ before coming back to the plan — and how it became a _plan_ he doesn't know — to get out of the city, past the climate control border and the suburban sprawl of the inner zones, and spend a couple of days away from everything, out on the highway.

"How about tomorrow?" Ray suggests. It's a Friday, but fuck it. He's already pulling his phone out to call in sick, and when he's done Mikey calls in too. They watch more movies and argue about comic books until 4 a.m. They catch a couple of hours of sleep, Ray crashing on the couch until sunrise wakes him up and he stumbles home for his car, bleary and happier than he can remember being for _years_.

He takes a quick shower and packs some food, then heads down to the garage, keys in hand. The Trans Am is right where he left her, looking a little dusty but she purrs to life the first time he tries the ignition. He fills up at the gas station and buy three giant cups of coffee and some donuts.

Gerard croons appreciatively and he and Mikey pile their shit into the backseat. Ray's privately glad he thought to pack some water, because Gerard's idea of necessary provisions for a night camping in the desert seems to consist mostly of junk food and sketchpads. Mikey's got sleeping bags, at least. Ray presses caffeine and sugar on them and they leave, speeding past a BLI shuttle and heading toward the Route 5 Tunnel.

"So where'd you get the car, anyhow? I mean, it's a fucking classic." Gerard says after he's inhaled the mug Ray had given him and part of Mikey's as well.

Ray's staring straight ahead, and his hands are completely still on the wheel, not even tapping along to the Bowie they've got on the radio. It's a fair question, really — why should a practical guy like Ray keep a gas-guzzler around for no apparent reason? — but he's not in the habit of talking about his old life. Still, something about this guy's straightforward curiosity makes him want to tell him.

"Yeah," he says, finally. "It was kind of a thing. My brother and dad used to work on it together when I was really little, and then after... well. My brother showed me all kinds of mechanical shit, after. We did all kinds of restoration on it and converted it to biofuel. I don't need it now that I'm at BLI, but... I would hate to give it up."

Mikey's set aside his phone to listen to Ray's story, leaning up into the console from the backseat, looking solemn. He says, "You shouldn't. Family is fucking important," he says, looking at Gerard. "I mean, without Gee I would never have understood the true genius of ABBA." Ray barks out a surprised little laugh, and Gerard grabs Mikey and pulls him over the console to noogie him to death until they hit the tunnel.

It's at least twenty degrees warmer on the other side of the dome and much brighter in the direct sun. Ray says apologetically, "We never got around to fitting it with A/C, either. Didn't seem that important back in Jersey. The window crank works on that side, at least."

Mikey grins back, already reaching for the knob and opening the window. He sticks his head out the window, letting his dark hair whip in the breeze for a few seconds. Ray grins hugely, watching Mikey's open smile from his driver's side mirror. Ray forgot how fucking great real sun can be, even when it's so bright you can't quite see.

Gerard puts on a pair of aviators and Ray turns up the stereo as they pass through the first few zones. Gerard's got opinions on everything, so they talk about cars and cartoons and music, Mikey contributing from the back seat, right out through the borderzones. As they reach the edge of the desert, Gerard's making expansive gestures with his cigarette and ranting about BLI and everything he thinks is wrong with it.

"All those people in the city, everyone who's working ten hours a day for the company, everything's black and white to them. Fuck, I think it makes your corneas atrophy or your retinas or whatever, 'til you can't even _see_ any more."

Gerard stares out the window, and Ray realizes he's staring at the blue of the sky and the yellow-brown of the dusty earth. "We should make them all come out here. Or just, like, go into their offices and fucking bomb them with art and color and life," he says, punctuating each word with a staccato jerk of his hand. "Just bomb the fuck out of them with, like, balloons full of red and yellow and fucking purple paint. Make them _feel_ something." Ray nods but it's not like Gerard is even paying attention because he's twisting around his seat to look at Mikey. "Hey, Mikey," he says, "We should artbomb your office."

Mikey looks up from his phone but doesn't say anything. He looks pleased, though.

"You know what I did when I quit BLI?" Gerard's saying to Ray again. "I painted a spider on their wall. There was this guy, Frank, right? He was a good guy, we used to smoke together, and he drew this spider on his hand one time, this crazy big spider — here, let me show you."

With another twist he reaches for his bag and fumbles for a notebook, opens it to a blank page and quickly draws a spider on it then holds it up for Ray to see. Ray looks over quickly, not taking his eyes off the road for too long. "It was like, Frank was arachnophobic, right? And he drew this fucking spider on his hand, and he said _face the thing you fear_. It was right there on his _hand_. So, you know, when I left I painted this huge spider on their wall, which in retrospect probably didn't mean much to them but I feel like there's a message there, you know? And you guys have your server and your remix and cracked DRM and all that. It's all the same thing, it's all... art for the masses, by the masses, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. It's _real_."

That night, sitting out around a campfire that's probably going to kill them with toxic fumes, Ray finds himself telling Gerard and Mikey more about his life before he moved to Battery City. He'd been a session guitarist, worked in a music shop, a mechanic, done a bunch of different things, 'til one day he was on the payroll of an independent label at the moment it got sucked up into the gaping maw of Better Living Industries. Everyone at the label had all sworn they were going to keep doing what they were doing, not let themselves get corporate, but it wasn't long before they'd all packed their shit and headed west to live in company apartments and work in cubefarms with grey carpet on the walls and manufacture pop for the masses.

"You know they have huge storage farms full of the good shit," he tells Gerard, "all just sitting there, and they never play it on the radio or on the tubes. So I just figured, it was wrong, you know? And Mikey here hooked me up with Pete Wentz who works in the data center and runs the pirate server, so it's all there now, and we're pushing it out over the peer to peer networks so I guess even when we get busted it'll still be there."

Gerard nods. "Making a difference," he says. Ray feels kinda glowy when Gerard says that, and he doesn't think it's the fire. The guy is just bizarrely sincere. No wonder Mikey will do anything for him, and, Ray admits, between being kind of into Mikey in the first place and Gerard's freakish persuasiveness, he's starting to feel it too.

"I wanted to be in a band," Ray says, poking at the fire. Mikey looks at him, and he realizes he's never told Mikey that. He tries to remember who he _has_ told and can't think of anyone. Huh. "I was going to be the next Randy Rhoads. But, you know."

"Better Living," Mikey says, deadpan.

"Yeah," says Ray, quirking a half-smile back at him.

At dawn, Ray wakes up to find Mikey snoring with his mouth open and Gerard awake, standing staring at the horizon. Gerard turns his head in greeting, but doesn't say anything. It's eerily quiet, and cold. Ray watches the stars disappear and realizes that it'd been years since he'd seen the real night sky, not partly obscured by a climate dome. They both put their hands in their pockets and watch the thin grey light turn into full day.

"Are you really gonna paint bomb BLI?" Ray asks, when it's light.

"Yeah. I dunno. Maybe?"

"Do you need someone to drive?"

* * *

 _The road's empty in both directions, blacktop and cracked yellow paint reflecting in the moonlight. There's a faint glow seeping out through the blinds from the battery-powered light on the diner counter. It's probably messing with their night vision, but Ray doesn't think it's bad enough to go inside and turn it out. Besides, Max had enough trouble getting to sleep in the first place, and Ray doesn't want her to wake up in the dark without a night light and freak out. If there's a drac patrol coming, they'll spot it on the scanner or hear the bikes in the empty desert before they can see them._

 _Mikey's a warm presence at Ray's side. Ray leans against him, bumping shoulders, and murmurs, "Time yet?"_

 _"Yeah," says Mikey, and stands up, stretching. They both check their rayguns in their holsters, and start their circuit. Down the highway a couple hundred yards, cut across on the dust-choked service road, back past empty buildings, watching for lights or movement or any kind of noise. Ray's pulled the scanner out of the Trans Am and he's holding it in front of him, watching the screen intently. It stutters static every few minutes, but there's nothing close enough to worry about. Mikey waves his flashlight around, and Ray catches himself thinking they should try and find some night vision goggles at a shitswap. Too late now._

 _They cover a stretch of highway on the other side, peering off the shoulder into the scrub and the weird shapes of the Joshua trees, then head back to the diner and sit their asses down on the cold cement out front. It's midnight. Two more hours 'til they can trade off and head inside._

* * *

Mikey hears the growl of the Trans Am pulling up outside their building. "Get up, let's go," he mutters at his brother, digging for his keys in the couch cushions just as his phone chirps Ray's ringtone.

It's been four days since they got back from the desert and Gerard's been freaking out a bit, alternating between sitting staring at his feet and biting his nails for hours and rampaging round the apartment, stirring through all his piles of shit on the floor, picking things up and dropping them again. Mikey's not sure what that means, and he has considered staying home to keep Gerard company just in case, but in the end the worst and weirdest thing that happens while Mikey's at work is that Gerard actually does laundry, which is disconcerting but not dangerous. Probably.

The day after the laundry incident, Mikey had come home to find Gerard drawing, sketchbook and pens spread out on the kitchen table. There were bright marks all over his fingers and face, when he'd forgotten to cap the pens before sticking them in his mouth or rubbing at his face, the dork. He'd looked up at Mikey, smiling his crooked smile, and Mikey'd grinned back just a little and got out his phone to dial Ray and Pete.

Gerard sucks at waiting. This morning when Mikey gets up he finds that Gerard's either up before him or, more likely, didn't go to bed at all. He's sitting on the kitchen floor with an empty coffee mug beside him, doodling on his arm in purple Sharpie. Gerard sticks the marker in his pocket after a final flourish and reaches up so Mikey can give him a hand. Mikey keeps hold of Gerard's hand once he's upright and studies the drawing on Gerard's arm, grinning at the sandworms from _Tremors_ eating cupcakes and grenades. "Cool," he says, because it kind of really is. Gerard seems to have a little more bounce in his step today as they leave the apartment and pile into Ray's car.

Mikey always gets a funny feeling leaving the city proper, out of BLI's space and into the zones, where things aren't quite so clean and consistently monochrome. They go through some residential neighborhoods, all mismatched houses painted different colors, and Mikey finds himself staring at them. It's been a long time since he's seen holiday decorations up, and he can't help but stare at the faded plastic reindeer and colored lanterns one family's got on their porch. They're stupid and ugly and they makes him want to buy some fucking Christmas lights for his living room window, the huge garish blinking kind, even though he knows his apartment manager would make him take them down within an hour.

They pull in to a garage beside a boarded up skate shop and jump out, slamming the garage door shut behind them. Mikey waits while Gerard gets out of the car, and sticks close behind him as they follow Ray into the shop. It's pretty dark but there's a tangle of wires hanging out of the meter box by the door, and it only takes a moment to get the fluorescent tubes buzzing overhead.

Pete arrives on a skateboard, comes in through the front door with his own key and lets it slam behind him, and greets Mikey by launching himself at him and clinging to him like a huge yet adorable koala.

"Hey Mikeyway!" he says, one leg wrapped around Mikey's hips and his tongue in Mikey's ear. "I missed you! Hey Ray, I missed you too, only," he adds with a leer, "not in quite the same way." Ray rolls his eyes, but Pete just laughs at him.

When Pete stops humping his leg for a minute, Mikey drapes an arm over his shoulder and says, "Pete, this is my brother, Gerard."

Gerard says, "Hi," and lifts his hand in an awkward little wave.

"All hail our glorious leader! Cool art, man," he says, grabbing Gerard's wrist and holding his tattooed arm up against it for comparison. "You think you can draw one of those to fit in my sleeve? Maybe later, though. Shit, Mikeyway, I've been stockpiling stuff for you. What's the plan?" He dives behind the counter and comes out with boxes full of paint cans. "Please tell me we're hitting BLI Media."

That's all it takes to get Gerard animated, and Mikey's relieved to see him dive into the boxes, appraising what's there, and starting to run through his ideas. It might not seem like a lot, but Gerard's actually dressed in real clothes and out of the house and he's holding up a paint can in each hand and saying something about murals, and Pete's grinning like a maniac, and Mikey thinks maybe Gee's past freaking out for now, he's fucking glowing with purpose, and it's going to be okay.

"So I was thinking like a literal art bomb," Gerard says. "Like, paint bombs made out of water balloons. And we could run in and bomb the fuck out of BLI Media HQ, huge splashes of color all over the walls and the street and the people coming to work, total abstract expressionism. Do it on a Monday morning, start of business —"

He's cut off by a rattle at the door. Everyone freezes for a moment, then Gerard shoves the paint cans back in the box and Pete and Ray both move toward the door.

"Who is it?" Pete calls out.

"Open up, dude," comes a voice from outside, weirdly muffled.

"Shit, Gabe." Pete flings the door open, and there's a guy there, about eight feet tall and wearing a what-the-fuck _mask_ , a giant foam animal head, a dog or something, that makes him even taller. Mikey just stares. "Get the fuck inside," says Pete. "Jesus, I told you this was on the DL. Why are you wearing a fucking Barko mask?"

"Didn't want anyone to recognize me," he says, pulling it off his head, then looks around at everyone staring at him. "Hey. I'm Gabe. Pete said you were going to fuck shit up."

"Gabe, Gerard, Mikey, Ray," says Pete, waving at each of them by way of introduction.

Hi," says Gerard, then steps forward and reaches out to touch Gabe's mask, looking like it's sparking ideas in his head. "Can you get me one of those?"

"Shit yeah," says Gabe, "Compliments of the Park Formerly Known As Disneyland. They're not using them for anything." They grin at each other and then get down to business.

Mikey's job is the remix: he and Pete are going to put together some audio while Ray and Gabe get some wireless speakers to drop all around the BLI Media building. Gerard assigns himself paintbomb duty. Gabe's got a car, and he offers to let Gerard raid the warehouse at his work for anything they need. "They just packed the whole park in mothballs," he says. "It fucking stinks, but they've got everything back there, costumes and animatronics and bits of the old rides and stuff. It's a crime, man." Gerard nods in agreement; Disney had kind of sucked, but at least they'd had some flair back in the day. BLI had ruined every bit of it that was worth anything, and then shut down the amusement park: too far outside the city core, too much of a reminder of the past.

It's dark outside the skate shop by the time they're done planning, so Pete goes out for tacos and brings enough back to feed everyone. They're sitting around on the floor with sketches and plans and notes spread out between them. Gerard has his sketchbook balanced awkwardly on his knee, ignoring the taco juice dripping down his left wrist as he frowns at the spider he's just drawn.

"We need Frank," he says. Mikey nods slowly, and leans towards Gerard, bumping shoulders.

"Who's Frank?" asks Gabe.

"He's one of us," Gerard says. "This is his." He gestures at his sketchpad, and gets taco grease on it. "Shit." A quick wipe with the cuff of his hoodie, then he stands up and starts pacing. "Frank would totally do this. He's, like, the inspiration."

Mikey kind of tunes out while Gerard tells the spider story again, 'til Gerard reaches the part where he paints the spider in the alleyway, then he says, "Here, shit, let me show you." He pushes some boxes away from the wall, stares for a moment at the mess of tags all over it, then grabs a bunch of spray cans and shoves them into everyone's hands.

Ray looks perplexed, and Pete looks at Mikey like Mikey's meant to understand what Gerard's thinking, and Gabe just laughs. Then Gerard's telling them what to do, waving his hands in huge arcs to show what he wants, and pretty soon they're all doing what he tells them, painting bright stripes of color, super-saturated like a television test pattern, all over the wall from floor to ceiling. Mikey's got the blue stripe, and he ends up with blue paint all over his hands, dripping down to his elbows. Ray, next to him, is painting yellow, and keeps swearing at his paint can until Mikey helpfully reaches over and wipes blue all over Ray's sleeve so Ray can have something else to swear about.

It takes a while to get the stripes all even, then they all watch while Gerard steps up with the black can and paints the spider design that he's been drawing all over the place for weeks. He does it freehand, and it's compelling just to watch him, arm sweeping out along the spider's legs, moving in close to mark out the lightning bolt detail on the spider's abdomen. When he's done he pauses for a moment, shaking the can. Then on the left side of the spider he scrawls, in his awkward paint-can writing, _ART IS THE WEAPON_ , and on the other side, _FACE WHAT YOU FEAR_.

He turns around, and his eyes are wild and he pushes his hair out of his face and grins at them. "Yeah?" he says.

"Yeah!" Pete says, then Ray throws his head back and laughs, and suddenly they're all hugging and back-slapping, and Mikey feels elation bubbling out of him and laughs out loud.

Ten days. They've got ten days to get it together, and then BLI Media is gonna see some fucking art.

* * *

The first thing Gerard does is print up a bunch of spider stickers and put them everywhere. He carries them in his pockets and slaps them on street signs, on walls, on the back of toilet stall doors and above the urinals, under the tables at the coffee place, and on the dashboard of Gabe's car. He sticks one to the back of his hoodie, but it keeps peeling off, so he gets some paint and spreads his hoodie out and paints it on instead, red on the black. It takes three applications before it stops soaking into the fabric and stands out sharply. Some of the paint bleeds through to the front of the hoodie and it kind of looks like he's bleeding. He decides he likes it.

Gabe's the most irresponsible person ever. Supposedly he has a real BLI job — though Gerard has trouble believing it, seeing the way he dresses, all clashing neon colors like an 80s music video vomited on him — at the Park Formerly Known As Disneyland, aka BLI Park #2, aka Better Playing, but when Gerard asks him about it he just says, "Can't cage the cobra, dude," and makes some weird hand signal. Whatever, Gabe's strange. He's seriously useful to have around though, because he's got his own car and he's always up for driving Gerard around and picking up supplies and shit.

One afternoon they head out to Zone 4, through all the sprawling run-down suburbs with boarded up shop windows and pot-holed streets, to the Park itself, to raid one of the warehouses. The whole place is surrounded by high walls topped with barbed wire. Gerard squints up at the security cameras dotted along the perimeter, trying to figure out if they're active. They drive across the empty, trash-littered parking lot and down a back road towards a service entrance. Gabe keys them in with his BLI ID; Gerard looks around nervously but Gabe just laughs. "There's nobody here," he says. "Whole place is dead. There's like three guys all sitting on the other side of the Park in an office watching TV right now, getting paid for it, and they don't give a fuck."

"What about the cameras?" Gerard asks.

"Took ‘em out months ago. Nobody gives a fuck, seriously. Here we are," he says, stopping by a big, nondescript building and swiping his card through the reader by the door.

"Huh," says Gerard, following him in and looking around. The bare fluorescent strips overhead flicker on at their movement, and Gerard sees rows and rows of shelves covered in BLI crap, merchandise and props and fuck knows what. Gabe heads straight for the back of the warehouse, where there's a bunch of bigger stuff just piled around haphazardly on the floor. Gerard follows him, pulling a few spider stickers from his pocket to slap on the shelves as he goes.

Gabe rummages in a huge pile of what must be costumes, strange dead-looking things of fake fur and foam, 'til he pulls out a mask, screeching in laughter as he holds it up. "It's _you_ baby," he says.

"Mousekat? Seriously?" Gerard squints at it, then takes it from him and lowers it over his head.

"It's very you." Gabe puts his hands on either side of its huge cheeks and plants a kiss on it. Gerard pulls a face inside the mask, but Gabe can't see.

"Fuck off," Gerard says, frowning. "I don't suppose there's any Mickey stuff left?"

Gabe shakes his head. "Nah, they got rid of all that shit years ago, burned it or something. What, don't you love Mousekat and Barko? Everyone loves Mousekat!" He smiles widely, and starts to sing, "Em oh! You ess! Ee kay ay! Tee!"

"Okay, okay, shut up already," says Gerard over Gabe's singing. "I'm Mousekat. I'm a fucking blue mouse crossed with a cat. Talk about inner conflict." He pulls the mask off again. It has ridiculous tufted blue hair and ears and staring circular eyes. "I guess it's kind of cool, actually... we'll be using their own creation against them, you know? Like, when we hit them, they won't know what to think."

"Yeah, plus, they left it lying around, so fuck ‘em," Gabe says.

They throw it in the back of Gabe's car and head back into Zone 1, looking for a dollar store that's got water balloons, while Gerard enthuses about old Disney cartoons, and promises Gabe that Mikey can hook him up with some if he needs them.

Back at the skate shop, Mikey and Pete are huddled over a laptop, flash drives sticking out of every port, sharing a pair of headphones between them. Gabe throws down the plastic packets of balloons on the table and goes to get the paint. Ray looks up and comes over to Gerard. "Hey, um," he says, "I've got something to show you."

Mikey looks up with an inscrutable expression as Ray opens the door to the garage, and then he and Pete follow them through to where Ray's car's parked.

"Um, shut your eyes," Ray says, and Gerard obediently closes them. Whatever it is had better not be anything disgusting, he thinks. Ray leads him around the car so they're standing in front of it. "You can open them now."

Gerard opens his eyes. "Wow, shit," he says. "Wow."

It's Frank's spider, painted across the hood of Ray's car. Gerard's speechless. He just stands and stares and then covers his mouth with both hands and then turns to Ray and hugs the fuck out of him. "I fucking love you," he says, and means it.

The only other thing left to figure out is the speakers, and Ray and Pete are on it. They've scavenged wireless transmitters and battery packs, and they spend Saturday night wiring them up while Gerard watches. It drives him kind of crazy to just sit there, though, so he ends up pacing around, letting all the ideas about the project come tumbling out of his mouth. He knows he's kind of babbling, but he can't stop himself, he's just so psyched.

"It's like we're a, a culture disruptor, disrupting the status quo, fucking up whatever people think is normal or whatever BLI tells them to think is normal," he says. "Just doing crazy shit to make them realize there's something else out there. It's like Better Living is broadcasting this signal and we're jamming it."

"Literally?" says Ray, looking up from his soldering iron when Gerard stops to take a breath.

"I — can we do that?"

"Yeah, I mean, there's this thing called a killjoy circuit, that's a sort of EMP thing, it'd knock out their transmitters, but it'd take a lot of —"

"Nah," says Gerard, "Later! I mean, one step at a time. Shit, this is going to be awesome. A killjoy circuit." His hand twitches and he grabs a pen and sits down again, scrawling notes in the margins, getting the ideas down before he loses them, so he can focus on _this_ job right now. Balloons. Paint. Art as a weapon against the monotone monotony of BLI life. Yeah.

Monday morning comes too fast and they're all jittering on caffeine as they roll up in two cars to their starting point, a block away from BLI Media. It's 4am. Ray and Pete and Mikey slip away quietly. They know their way around the building and they know the tech. Gerard sits in the passenger seat of Ray's car and smokes cigarette after cigarette. At around 5:30 the guys come back, making stealthy little whoops under their voices and high-fiving each other. The speakers are in place.

Gerard crawls into the back seat with Mikey and now the waiting begins for real. Gerard can hardly stand it. He wants a pill to calm his nerves so bad his skin itches. He grabs Mikey's hand instead and holds on to it with both of his, and he's probably going to break some bones in there or something, but Mikey just covers Gerard's hands with his other one, and they sit there and sit there for _hours_ , fucking _seriously_ , while Ray sits in the front humming softly and tapping his fingers on his thigh and the dirty daylight comes up and the street lights go out.

Then it's almost time and Gerard gets out and starts pacing, starts bouncing around, swinging his arms, stretching out some of the tension. "Is it time yet?" he asks, half a dozen times.

"Shuttle comes at 7:45," Mikey says again. They've been through it, but Gerard can't help himself.

"But Mikey, why aren't we theeeeerrre yet?" Gerard whines. Mikey rolls his eyes.

"T minus five," Ray says at last.

"This is it," Gerard says. He jogs over to Gabe's car and Gabe's just getting out and putting on his Barko mask. Pete's behind the wheel. "We good?" Gerard asks.

"Fuckin A." says Gabe, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"In and out, move fast," Gerard reminds him. "Keep the motor running," he tells Pete. "Five minutes is all we've got."

"I know, I know," says Pete.

And then Gerard's pulling on the Mousekat mask and Mikey's handing him the bucket of paint balloons and he can hear his own breathing amplified and echoing like Darth Vader. He takes a few deep breaths just because it sounds cool, and it calms him down, even though the lingering mothball fumes make him a little light-headed. Yeah, they're doing this. They're fucking doing it.

They see the white and black shuttle bus full of BLI employees at the end of the block and it's _go go go_. Gabe's right beside him, and they give each other a high five, and then Gerard whoops and shouts, "Killjoys are go!" and they're off, running, rounding the corner to the front of the BLI building. And just as they're approaching the entrance, the speakers crackle to life, and then _da-dada-DAH-da_ , it's Flight of the Fucking Valkyries, booming from everywhere and nowhere, and all the BLI drones are staring and looking around them like they don't know what's hit them. Gabe's at his side shouting and whooping and they're reaching into their buckets for paintbombs and flinging them against the walls, against the glass entrance, against that stupid fucking white rectangle statue thing out front. The spatter hits the employees and they're shrieking and crowding toward the door and some of them are down on the ground.

Then the music cuts off with a record-scratch and a booming voice intones, "Listen up! Art is the Weapon. We are the revolution!" and some punk-ass shit screams out of the speakers, thrashing guitars and screeching noise, and Gerard's screaming in his mask, kicking and punching at the air, spinning around with his bucket, dropping orange and violet and green all over the fucking place in crazy loud splashes.

***

Ray starts up the car as Gabe and Gerard come racing back, covered in paint splatters and breathlessly laughing, "Shit, shit, motherfuck!" Gabe runs for his car, and Gerard dives into the Trans Am. Ray puts the pedal to the metal and they screech away with the security goons shouting and waving their arms impotently and the music still ringing out tinnily from the hidden speakers. It's an hour long mix, and if they're lucky it'll take BLI's goons almost that long to find them all and shut them down.

Gerard's laughing like an idiot and his head's all tilted sideways because his stupid mask won't let him sit upright in the car. He's laughing and flailing in the passenger seat, trying to get the mask off his head, but he figures it out eventually and throws the mask in back. Mikey's got the tracker back there too, and he's watching the green LEDs that tell him the speakers are still up. It takes for-fucking-ever for any of them to go out, which is even better than they expected.

"We did it," says Gerard, and leans out the window to shout it again at the passing office buildings, "We fucking did it. We're the fucking Killjoys!"

Ray just keeps on driving, with Pete and Gabe right behind him in the other car, and they convoy out through the climate border and the ex-burbs and the inner zones 'til they hit the desert. It wasn't like they had any kind of a plan other than "get the fuck away", but it seems like the thing to do. Mikey's texting in the back seat and Gerard's giggling and lying bonelessly in the passenger seat and Ray cranks up the tunes and they drive and drive.

They pull up in the middle of nowhere at Mikey's request, and Gabe and Pete pull up behind them. Everyone gets out and pisses, then Ray hands round bottles of water and they suck it down and then just stand there grinning stupidly.

"Aren't you guys late for work?" Pete says. Mikey and Ray look at each other.

"I think we just quit," Ray says, feeling so light and free he could just about float away. "How about you?"

Pete shakes his head. "Second shift. Someone's gotta keep your server running, asshole."

There's an awkward lull, and then Mikey, who's biting at a hangnail, looks at Gerard and says, "So, now what?"


	2. Chapter 2

_It's hard to hold still. The tip of the pen makes Frank's skin twitch, makes him want to laugh and curl up and kick his limbs out. But Gerard's left hand holds him steady, presses reassuringly against Frank's skin as he draws, and Frank focuses on the feel of Gerard's palm and fingers spread out against the small of his back or his forearm pressing against the back of his knee._

 _The cap goes back on the sharpie with a faint snap. There's a moment of stillness, and Frank guesses Gerard's looking at his work. Then Gerard leans down, and traces his tongue across the dip at the top of Frank's ass, following a line Frank can't see. Frank goes "nnngh" and can't help pushing up to meet him. Gerard responds by sliding his hand between Frank's thighs, nudging his legs apart._

 _"Can I?" Gerard says, his voice low and rough, like he's still raw from screaming at the crowd._

 _"Fuck, yeah," says Frank, and Gerard opens him up with his tongue and his fingers, 'til Frank's begging and babbling for Gerard to do it, fucking do it already. Frank feels the thickness of Gerard's cock pressed up against him, then Gerard's sinking into him, holding Frank's hips tightly and swearing, "Fuck, fuck, Frankie," as his cock stretches and fills him. Frank tries to muffle his moans in the foam mattress, and fails._

* * *

The job's at a vegan restaurant, and Frank starts Tuesday at lunchtime. It's not glamorous, but he's paid off the books and gets fed too, which he figures is a pretty sweet deal since he's still staying at Bob's place for free. The restaurant folks are good people, pretty laid back, and they let Frank play whatever music he wants while he's elbow-deep in dishwater, so long as it's not so loud the customers can hear it. He works six days a week with Mondays off, blasting the Misfits and Mad Gear and Black Flag while he washes, and winds up at the Pit every other night or so. All in all, he figures, it could be worse.

He's been working for a few weeks when he first sees one of the stickers. It's pasted to the mirror in the restroom, and it's right there when he goes to wash his hands. He gets a weird haunted feeling looking at it, because it looks just like the spider he drew on his hand before he got fired from BLI, right down to the lightning-flash across its body. "Weird," he says to his reflection.

They scrape the sticker off the mirror the next morning, because they try to keep the restroom at least kind of clean and unvandalized, and Frank doesn't think anything more of it 'til one night he's standing outside the Pit smoking and notices another sticker on a signpost. After that they start showing up everywhere. Somehow the fact that they're all over the place reassures him, because there's just no way that the whole city could be plastered with his spider. It has to be a coincidence.

He asks Brian one night when he notices one stuck to the back of the sound booth. "Hey, what's with the spider stickers?"

Brian shrugs. "Guerrilla advertising or something, fuck knows. Stupidest advertising campaign I ever saw."

When he asks Nadine at the restaurant, she says she heard it was something to do with that gang who vandalized BLI Media the other week, she's not sure. But then, Nadine is always pretty vague. So Frank just shrugs it off and ignores the weird deja-vu feeling he gets whenever he sees them.

He makes it to his two month anniversary as a dishwasher, and then three days after that he comes in for his shift and Nadine takes him aside and says, "Frank, honey, there were some guys here looking for you."

"What guys?" Frank asks.

"Better Living," Nadine says behind her hand, as if she doesn't want the customers to hear. "In _uniform_." Being visited by Better Living goons in uniform is pretty much Nadine's worst nightmare, so Frank starts to apologize, but Nadine cuts him off. "Honey," she says, "Are you in trouble?"

"No," says Frank. "I mean, no, I don't think so. Did they say what they wanted?"

"Oh! Yeah, they left this card." She starts patting at her pockets and looking around as if it might be on one of the restaurant tables or something, but then she finds it tucked in next to the cash register.

Frank takes it from her hand and reads it. _Senior Agent Bianco, Department for the Reclamation of Art and Culture_. He's heard of them, of course — they're like the enforcement arm for BLI Media — but he has no idea what they want with him. He's never even worked anywhere near the media group, and Facilities never had anything to do with them. Plus, he signed all the paperwork and did all that crap on his last day, he had his last paycheck months ago, and he just can't understand why BLI would be trying to contact him at all.

He's edgy as fuck all through the lunch shift, though, trying to figure out what it's all about, and when it starts to get quiet in the afternoon he throws down his rubber gloves and asks Nadine, "You mind if I go home?"

"It's slow right now," Nadine agrees. "Go ahead."

"Thanks," says Frank, and ducks out quickly before she changes her mind. He's been thinking, maybe it's not related to his old job at all, maybe it's just a standard enforcement thing. He's starting to worry about his music drives. It's probably stupid, but he's not gonna feel good 'til he goes home and does something about them. He's pretty sure he left them out on the coffee table, and he's trying to decide whether he should just hide them, or whether he should wipe them. He's heard they can read what was on a drive even after it's been wiped, though, and besides he really doesn't want to lose all his music. The dilemma takes him most of the way home.

Bob's apartment block is two down from the corner, and Frank doesn't even have to turn into the street to see the van parked out front of it, white with black lettering. There are a couple of guys in uniforms standing around, and he can see that they're armed. _Shit, shit shit shit._

He feels suddenly sick, and looks away quickly. That's... definitely not good. He can't go back there, not even to get his stuff, not if he doesn't want to answer a whole pile of uncomfortable questions. He's heard about D.R.A.C., they don't tend to take, "but I'm a really big music fan!" as an excuse, and he's heard stories, alright? He heard about one guy who got fined, like, a million bucks or something just because his roomie was using his laptop to watch TV, and they've got ways of finding you, even if you think your downloads are encrypted. He _really_ doesn't want to get taken in for questioning by these guys. Bob's going to kill him when he gets home. No, wait — Bob won't be home 'til tomorrow, so that's one good thing at least. Shit, he hopes this doesn't get Bob in too much trouble.

Frank takes a deep breath, and keeps walking. _Nope, nothing to see here_ , he thinks, trying to look like he's got no interest in any of it, like he's just a random pedestrian out for a stroll, which, come to think of it, is suspicious enough in Battery City.

He makes it about a block past Bob's street then breaks into a run, heading for the only place he can think of. Five minutes later he gets smart and pauses to throw his cell phone into a trash can, then keeps running.

* * *

They spend the first week in a run-down Motel-6 that Ray insists on calling the Roach Motel. Gerard's fizzing with ideas, and they flow out of his fingertips onto paper in big, confident scrawls. He sits in the middle of the ugly nylon bedspread on one of the beds, drawing. Ray's outside lying in a cracked plastic lounge chair with his shirt off and a pair of headphones on, listening to tunes off Mikey's flash drives, playing what looks like pretty good air guitar. Mikey's standing with a cigarette held loosely between his fingers, staring at the sketchbook pages Gerard's pinned to the motel wall.

"What's this?" Mikey asks, tracing a line with his fingertip.

Gerard looks up, and it takes him a moment to process the question. Sometimes he gets kinda lost in his head. Mikey's looking at a picture of a group of Disneyesque cartoon characters with huge heads, standing on a stage with guitars, striking rockstar poses. There's a mouse, and a dog, and some kind of rabbit or something.

"Culture disruptor," says Gerard. "You know, like Ray said — jamming the signal. Taking BLI's brand and using it to, like, subvert the message. Look, check this out." He passes over another sheet that he's just finished.

"Is this the skate shop?"

"Yeah. I thought we could turn it into an art space, a swap site. Killjoy circuit central." He's having trouble finding the words he needs to describe it. "Just a base, you know? For kids who need somewhere to do art, or for people who want to meet up somewhere that's not BLI."

"You want to go back to the city?"

Gerard shakes his head emphatically, "No, no, I mean, yes, we have to go get it set up, but we don't have to stay there. I thought maybe Pete and Gabe..." he trails off, looking hopefully at Mikey. "We could visit. Trade stuff. I've got some other ideas too."

He's got a bunch of sketches of art he wants to do, mostly murals and messing up BLI billboards and stuff. He's drawn out a bunch of them, and he's got some ideas for how to do them fast, get in there and out again before anyone's onto them, if he can just get enough people to help out.

He's not ready to tell anyone about all his other ideas yet, but he can feel them tumbling around in his head, all interconnected, starting to come together into something enormous and wild. Sometimes he lies awake with Mikey curled up on one side, and sees it in technicolor.

One day Gerard walks two miles along the shoulder of the highway, 'til he comes to a town. Half the shops are boarded up, but he buys some magazines and candy from one of the ones that's not and, on the spur of the moment, goes into a faded beauty salon and gets some hair stuff. Back at the Roach Motel, Ray helps him bleach his hair blond over the bathroom sink. It burns his scalp like a motherfucker, but looks pretty awesome when it's done. Gerard cuts the sleeves off his t-shirt, and walks out in the sun with his arms bare, and feels like a new person.

"Sweet," Ray says, when he sees it.

Mikey just squints at him for a long time, then echoes Ray: "Sweet." Later, Mikey uses the bleach too, and gets Ray to hack it into a ridiculous shaggy punk cut.

They head back into the city a week later. Mikey texts ahead to let Pete know they're coming back in. They drive back through an acid shower and through the spreading cancer of low sprawling buildings and turn off just before the tunnels, where they can see the weird haze of the city's dome rising up ahead of them. Their old CorpHousing neighborhood's under that dome, Gerard thinks, remembering the cool air and filtered light, how it was like being in a huge office building even when you were outside. The thought of it makes his skin itch.

Pete and Gabe are at the skate shop already with a pile of boxes.

 

"Dude," Pete says, coming over and slinging his arm over Mikey's shoulder, "you are so fucked. BLI was right behind us when we cleared out your place, and I checked — they've locked your accounts and shit. Yours too," he says to Ray and Gerard. "But don't worry, I've got it under control." Turns out he's got a stash of grey market SIMs and cash cards. "Those should keep you going for a while," he says. "I've hooked the SIMs into a pirate cell network. Totally untraceable, and the phone signal piggybacks on BLI corporate transmissions so you should have coverage fucking everywhere."

They swap out their cellphones and empty their wallets of all the cards that don't work anymore, then they go through all the other stuff Pete and Gabe picked up from their apartments. There's a pile of boxes, and a guitar leaning up against them. It must be Rays; a Les Paul, Gerard thinks, not that he's any expert. Ray must've been missing it out in the desert. He picks it up and tunes it, plays a few notes before putting it in the trunk of his Trans Am.

The rest of the stuff's too much to fit in the car though. Gerard looks at the boxes of comics and DVDs. They're gonna have to leave them here at the shop. That's okay. Hopefully the kids who come here will like them, get to see something new, maybe get inspired by some of it. He starts sorting through the comics, thinking about which ones he'd tell the kids to read first, if they haven't read any before.

He gets so engrossed in it that he startles when a new guy comes in, a stranger with gauged ears and his hair piled up in a knot on top of his head and an impressive collection of tattoos scrawled all over his brown skin. He's carrying a drill, one of Mikey's good speakers and some kind of bracket.

Gabe greets him with some kind of complicated speed-of-light fistbump and claps him on the shoulder, and Gerard relaxes. "Travie, man," Gabe says, "Come meet the guys who donated their stereo to the shop." He winks at Gerard and Mikey. Gerard opens his mouth to protest that it wasn't a _donation_ , but fuck it, it's not as if they can take it with them anyway.

Travie grins. "Yo, Mikeyway! Missed seeing you 'round." It figures, Gerard thinks. Mikey knows everyone. Travie hefts the speaker and nods at Mikey. "Thanks for the gear, man. This shit is pretty sweet."

They spend two days cleaning the place out. People start to show up, mostly kids Mikey and Pete know, and they bring equipment and supplies and sandwiches and hang around getting underfoot. Travie takes charge of the music, so there're non-stop beats pouring from Mikey's speakers.

They haul piles of crap out to the dumpster out back, and set up tables for projects and a lounge area, and Gerard spends a bunch of time explaining his ideas to everyone. He's got some billboard designs, reworkings of BLI advertisements, and if he can get a crew together he's figured out how to paint over the real BLI ads with his stuff in no time flat. Meanwhile Ray's brought the schematics for the wireless speakers they used for the first paintbomb run, and they print out copies on a creaking old laser printer and hand them around. Gerard's got a feeling there's going to be a lot more unlicensed noise in the city pretty soon.

Gerard borrows a laptop and spends a bunch of time recreating what he remembers of the BLI Core Symbol Vocabulary as modifiable images, and uploads them to Pete's server. Before long he has a stack of printed labels: the BLI face logo with huge eyelashes and a feather boa, another version of it with X X eyes and its tongue poking out, restroom symbols with the boy in pink and the girl in blue, replacement stickers for the front of Better Living vending machines all done in rainbow colors. The kids all grab handfuls of them.

"Hey, can we make stencils out of these?" one of them asks. Wayne, Gerard thinks. He's had to learn a bunch of names this week.

"Yes!" he says. "Wait, I've got another one." The printer spits out a warm sheet and he holds it up to show it. It's a version of the symbol CorpHealth uses for their vending machines, with an X below it.

"Fucking straight-edge," Wayne grins, and takes it from his hand.

"I had another idea, too," Gerard says to the room at large, and a few people turn to listen to him. "If we could get access to one of the department stores or something. I mean, we'd have to know someone who worked there or whatever, but I was thinking, if we could open up the packaging of some of the stuff. Not all the stuff obviously, but just some of the boxes. You know, that black and white BLI packaging, right? And, um, I was thinking we could replace all the stuff in them with our own stuff, like with toys and colored stuff, or maybe glitter? Like, a surprise when people open it?"

"Did someone say glitter?" Gabe asks, bouncing up from nowhere. "I'm in." Gerard's starting to learn that the crazier an idea is, the more likely that Gabe wants in on it.

Before long the skate shop's full of people working on stuff, and Gerard's head is spinning. It's like vertigo or something, the feeling that he's standing on the edge of something big and he's about to fall off. They've got art runs planned out at least six weeks in advance, and Gabe knows someone who knows someone who works at the big department store downtown, and some of the kids are coming up with ideas of their own. BLI are going to be pissed. _Korse_ is going to be pissed, Gerard thinks, if he ever realizes Gerard's behind all this. For a moment he wonders whether Korse knows, then he remembers the spider in the alleyway behind the office, and thinks, yeah, probably. Fuck him, anyway. This is like the antidote to BLI's brand awareness initiative, all the poison that Korse and Secretary Sato and th rest of the corporate marketing assholes were always trying to push.

Gerard's taking a break, leaning against what used to be the shop's counter and sipping lukewarm coffee, when one of the kids, a girl with long bangs and a nose ring, grabs another mug and leans against the counter beside him.

"Is that your spider?" she asks, waving at the wall they'd painted that first day. "It's fucking badass."

"It's Frank's," Gerard says, then tells her the whole story and makes her promise to keep an eye out for him. She takes a bunch of spider stickers and pulls a group of kids in to confer with them. Gerard wonders for a minute about whether he should make up some "Wanted" posters. He's pretty sure he could draw Frank's face from memory, and he could put them up on the walls here at the skate shop so everyone would know what he looked like. Or would that be kind of creepy?

Later, Mikey comes over and sits next to him. "Do you think they'll find him?" Mikey asks. Mikey always knows what's on Gerard's mind.

Gerard leans against him. "I hope so," he says.

"You should have just asked for his number," Mikey says.

"I don't even know which fucking district he lives in. Lived in, I mean, he obviously couldn't stay in CorpHousing once he got fired. He could be anywhere now. I mean, fuck, Mikey. We've got kids all over the city looking for this guy, you know? I'm starting to think he got the fuck out."

"He'd be an idiot not to. You think he's out here in the zones? Maybe out further?"

Gerard grunts. "I don't know. Maybe he's — maybe he's gone somewhere else, gone to another city or something. Maybe he's in a Roach Motel somewhere and we drove past him and we didn't even know."

"Yeah," Mikey says, leaning in to bump shoulders with him. "He's gotta be somewhere though. Between me and Pete and Travie and Gabe, we'll find someone who knows someone. That and the spider. If he's anywhere around, he'll get the message."

Gerard pulls a face. "I know. You're right, this is going to work. I know it will. It's like the Bat Signal. The Frank Signal, whatever." He pauses for a minute, wondering if they can get a big spotlight to project against the city's dome. He should ask Gabe if that would work. "I just want him to be a part of this, you know?"

Mikey doesn't say anything, but Gerard can hear what he's thinking.

"Shut up," Gerard says. "I know, alright."

* * *

Frank ends up around the back of The Pit, banging on the door even though the place won't be open for hours yet. But Brian's in there, and he opens the door and says, "What the fuck, Iero?" and Frank just hops from one foot to the other and says "Let me in?" and Brian stands aside and holds the door, then looks quickly down the alleyway before closing it.

"You in trouble?" Brian asks, when they're both inside.

"I think so?" says Frank.

Brian just waits, like he's got all day to listen to Frank's shit, and Frank opens and closes his mouth a couple of times trying to figure out how to explain without sounding totally melodramatic, then thinks _fuck it_ and blurts out, "I think BLI are after me."

Brian looks skeptical, but as Frank tells him what happened and pulls out the business card Nadine gave him, he starts to look worried.

"D.R.A.C.?" he says. "They're the piracy guys."

"I _know_ ," says Frank. "I have all this music," he adds.

Brian gives him a scornful look. "How _much_ music?" he asks.

"A... lot?" Suddenly he feels like an idiot. But seriously, he's heard _stories_ about what D.R.A.C. do to people. "Alright, so not that much," he admits. "I wasn't, like, dealing or anything. But what else could it be? Shit. I don't what they wanted. I don't think it was anything good."

"No shit."

"Do you think it was something about my job? BLI?"

"What do you think?" Brian asks. He's kind of annoying, Frank thinks, the way he turns questions around like that.

"I don't know. What else could it be?"

"I don't know either, man," Brian says. "What do you want me to do about it?"

When he puts it like that Frank kind of feels like an asshole, because hello, he just showed up on this guy's doorstep all "Help, save me!" and it's not as if it's Brian's problem.

"Can I... I mean, do you mind if I just stay here for a while?" Frank asks, trying not to sound too needy and desperate. "And, uh, can I use your phone? I kind of threw mine away, and I need to call Bob, make sure he knows, so he doesn't get home and freak out."

Brian looks at him like he's sizing him up, and Frank tries his best to look like he's not gonna cause trouble or bring BLI down on The Pit. Then Brian shrugs, and says "Sure," and lets Frank hug the fuck out of him and say "thank you" about fifty times, then hands him his phone with one hand and a mop with the other. "Tell Bob you're an idiot," he says. "From me."

* * *

"Ray Toro, my friend," Gabe says late one afternoon, appearing in front of where Ray's sitting and looming over him, "It's time we showed you some local color."

Ray laughs, and looks over to Mikey, who just lifts an eyebrow encouragingly. Ray's got no idea what "local color" entails, but after a few days in the skate shop breathing paint fumes and listening to Gerard's over-excited voice all day, he's not going to say no to a change of pace. Ray stands up, smiling. "Sure," he says.

"Excellent," says Gabe, rubbing his hands together.

Travie's outside, behind the wheel of a station wagon, arguing good-naturedly with the young guy sitting next to him. The car is pretty nice, actually, wouldn't be out of place inside the city itself. Gabe leans into the passenger-side window and rummages through the glove compartment, pulling some colorful bandannas out and tossing one at Ray. "Uniform's compulsory," he says, tying a purple bandanna round his neck, letting it hang loose under his chin. Ray's has pink polka-dots, ugly as hell but Ray doesn't hesitate, just laughs and ties it on and gets in the car.

"Hey," Travie says, grinning in welcome. "Glad you could make it."

Ray and Gabe squeeze into the backseat of the station wagon next to two of the skate shop regulars, Andi who Ray likes because she can hold her own in a conversation about 80s metal, and an older woman with a crewcut who Ray hasn't actually talked to yet.

"Hi," Ray says, then apologizes to Andi as Gabe squishes him up against her.

Gabe slams the door and Travie peels away from the skate shop. Ray listens with half an ear as Travie and Luis continue what is obviously a longstanding argument about DJing. Gabe occasionally adds his perspective which is usually greeted by jeering howls from the front. Gabe's obviously looking to get a rise out of them, and it's working. Gabe's definitely an interesting guy, Ray thinks.

They hit a school first, one of the BLI-run ones built of concrete, out on the edge of Zone 1 where the houses are all spread out and there are even trees along the sides of the road. They park a few blocks away and approach via some quiet, empty streets, pulling their bandannas up as they approach the school parking lot. The neighborhood is strangely deserted, and people have their curtains drawn in almost every house. They're probably just making dinner and watching the BLI news, but it makes him uneasy. He tries to act natural while still keeping his face turned away from the security cameras perched on every third streetlight.

Gabe chuckles when he notices Ray's awkward attempts to be unnoticed and waves his phone at him. "Pete's got our phones transmitting to glitch the video signals when we come near. You don't have to act like you robbed the bank."

Ray looks up at the next camera as they approach, and the light on it is blinking red.

It's late, and the school's almost empty, but there are lights on in a couple of windows and Ray catches a flash of movement in one of them. Heart thudding, he squints up at the figure behind the glass. It's a kid in the black and white school uniform. The kid doesn't do anything, though, just presses her hand to the window and watches them, so Ray turns back to Travie and Gabe and the others. They're whipping out paint cans and some of the stencils Gerard had designed: variations of the BLI logo with mohawks and pigtails and actual emotional expressions.

Ray's not much good with the stencils, and he smudges a couple of them before Gabe laughs and puts him on sticker duty instead. The woman with the crewcut, whose name turns out to be Corin, is a fucking awesome freestyle spray-painter, and she adds a new mural of a kid wielding a flamethrower shooting neon rainbow flames to the side of the school.

Travie's phone buzzes urgently after about a half an hour, and he gives a sharp whistle, signaling everyone to split. Ray can hear distant sirens, so he follows Travie's lead, breaking off one way while the rest go another, to rendezvous back by the station wagon. Ray's a little breathless from the dash when he gets there, but he feels fucking invincible, high on the rush of fucking up BLI property.

They head toward the city, stopping a couple of times to stencil the walls of a BLI bank, an electronics store, and the pavement in the parking lot behind a Better Living cinemaplex. When they pull in at a gas station for a pit stop, Ray takes a handful of stickers into the bathroom and pastes them above the urinals.

When he comes out, drying his hands on his jeans, Gabe's buying masking tape and snacks and a portable container of gasoline. The neon pink t-shirt and bright blue studded belt he's wearing are striking against the rows of BLI packaged food.

The gas station attendant gives them both suspicious looks. "What are you planning to do with that?" he says, gesturing to the gas. Ray's been wondering the same thing, but he didn't think this was the best place to ask.

"It's for my lawnmower," Gabe says innocently. He hands the attendant a wad of cash.

"No BLI card?" the guy says, as he starts to key in the code to do a cash transaction. "Don't have to do his often." He frowns at the screen. "Most people round here are company folks."

"We're freelance artists," Ray puts in helpfully.

The guy's eyebrows climb up toward his hairline. "We've got cameras in this place, you know. No funny business." He takes Gabe's money and watches them as they head back to their car. Mikey doesn't have the heart to tell him his cameras are not exactly working right now, thanks to Pete's jamming. He's surprised to find someone so dedicated to the corporation, but he supposes there're people who like the BLI life. It's safe, easy. Not everyone chafes for something more, or misses what came before.

"Good thing I put fake plates on this baby," Travie says, patting the hood of the car fondly.

Their last stop is inside the city itself, a triangular park nestled in between two BLI offices, not far from where the tunnel lets out just inside the dome. The sun's down by now, and the streets are lit with the bluish lamps that are everywhere in the city, but the park itself is pretty sheltered and not too visible from the street.

Corin takes the gasoline and Ray goes with her, while the rest of them spread out round the edge of the park, keeping an eye out for trouble. Corin unscrews the cap, and starts pouring gasoline all over the grass. She's writing words, spelling out "Art is the Weapon" and "Stay Ugly" and "It's A Trap!" in the perfectly manicured lawns. She hands Ray the can and he writes, "Sing Louder".

"Are we going to burn it?" he asks.

Corin shakes her head. "Nobody here to see it, and we don't wanna attract the attention if we don't need to. This'll just kill the grass in a day or two. They'll be able to see it from up there," she adds, pointing up at the office buildings.

Ray finds himself singing along to the car stereo on the way back, feeling lit up with ideas and energy. His mind is buzzing and he thinks it's only a little bit from the spraypaint and gasoline fumes.

* * *

Pictures of the fucked up grass start circulating online after a couple of days. There's nothing on the BLI news, but it's spreading virally, which is even better, and Ray's so fucking proud of himself he can't stop grinning about it. Gabe keeps teasing him about popping his cherry, and Ray looks embarrassed, but Mikey thinks it's pretty cool, and he tells him so.

Things are starting to settle down at the skate shop, and kids are coming by every day, hanging out, making stuff, planning art runs. Gerard's right at the center of it at first, but after a few more days he starts looking strung out and edgy. Mikey's not sure anyone else notices, but he can tell. It's time to get out of the city. They pack Ray's guitar and a single box of stuff they really couldn't leave behind into the back of the Trans Am and hit the road.

Back out in the desert, they spend their days cruising the highways and their nights holed up in a succession of faded motel rooms, watching movies on Mikey's netbook and making plans for more art runs. Mikey spends a lot of time talking quietly to Gee, or watching him paint, or listening to Ray play his guitar. Sometimes he and Ray take off in the Trans Am, leaving Gerard behind with his art. "Recon," Ray calls it. They almost always bring something home with them: tamales, or salvaged junk that Gerard turns into sculpture, or stories about the people they meet.

It's different outside the city. It's not that Mikey doesn't like it. It just takes him a while to adjust and get his head around it, to get used to the brightness and the emptiness. Gee seems to love it, though, spending a surprising amount of time outside in the glaring sun, staring at the desert or enthusing over the weird little art installations he keeps finding scattered around the place. Ray's so laid back it's hard to tell what he thinks sometimes, but Mikey's pretty sure he's happy too.

Mikey's starting to learn how the desert works, though. Out here, people live in tight defensive clusters with dogs and shotguns, or else they move around, hopping from one dry, abandoned town to the next, reworking everything they find into crazy monuments to individualism and passing on news and trading whatever they've got to spare at the little tent stands people put up along the side of the highway.

They stumble on their first shitswap by accident. They're on the highway that used to be Route 60, Gerard's behind the wheel and Ray and Mikey are in back. Mikey hears a roaring sound and looks up from his phone to see a swarm of motorcycles surround then pass them. A moment later, they pass a slow-moving van with enormous speakers on top of it, an even slower-moving recumbent bike, enclosed in a hard plastic shell so it's like a bubble moving along the road, and three rollerbladers, stretching their limbs as they swoop along the blacktop.

"What the hell?" says Gerard, and before Mikey or Ray can even respond, he's turning off the highway onto a dust-choked track, following what seems like half the local population to God only knows where or what. They pull into a parking space and get out.

"Cool," says Ray, looking around.

"Oh my god," Gerard says. "It's — it's like an outdoor festival collided with a junkshop and went supernova. Oh my god. We need to — _everything_. Can we?" He jams his fingers through his hair.

There are stalls set out in rough rows and clumps, where people have set up tables and shade cloths and spread out all kinds of stuff for sale or trade, and it looks like there's just about anything here you could want. Mikey suddenly realizes he can probably find new sneakers, or, better, boots here. The ones he wore out of the city are falling apart.

"Coffee," says Gerard, decidedly. "We need to find real coffee."

"Do you think they have guitar strings?" Ray asks.

In the end their first stop is a stall selling clothes, racks of anything you could want and more of it piled in cardboard boxes. "Check it out," says Mikey, pulling a blue vintage Battlestar Galactica t-shirt from out of one of them.

"Sweet," say Ray, and dives into the next box over.

They end up with a load of new stuff, including Mikey's boots and some jeans for Gerard and a leather jacket for Ray that makes him look totally badass, and take them up to the woman with green dreads and a stoned expression who looks like she's in charge. She's got a beat-up raygun strapped to her thigh, it looks like it was cobbled together from six different guns. Mikey eyes it warily, still not used to seeing people brazenly wearing deadly weapons in public like this. It makes him uneasy.

"How much for these?" Mikey asks.

"Depends what you got, sugar."

Mikey pulls out his wallet and digs through it. He finds one of the cash cards Pete gave them, and hands it to her.

"Oh, sweet stuff, are you fresh off the Greyhound?" She laughs, low and husky, and Mikey tries not to show his embarrassment. "Take a look around you," the woman says. "We're off the grid, all the way. That pretty little piece of plastic ain't worth shit. What else you got?"

They end up paying in data, transferring gigs of bootlegged old Disney movies onto a grinding old platter-spinner. Turns out ones and zeroes are hard currency out here, which makes Mikey pretty thoughtful.

They wind up with most of the supplies they're looking for and then some. At one of the last tables, Ray finds a portable solar generator and Gerard finds a mostly-functional airbrush kit and some cans of paint. They make a pile to pay for them, then Mikey notices Gerard at the end of the table, looking at a box full of BLI-issue drugs. They look pretty suspicious and many of the expiration dates have been rubbed off. Gerard's frowning and his hand, on the edge of the table, is white-knuckled.

"Hey," Mikey says. Gerard comes away when Mikey tugs at his elbow, and they leave Ray to finish haggling for the stuff they're buying. It's not 'til they get back to their car that Mikey succeeds in drawing Gerard into a conversation about old sci-fi television.

The van they passed on the highway is parked next to them, speakers blaring some kind of old-school surf music. The DJ's voice rings out over the last fading chords: "That's for all you dustbabies and zone hoppers, coming to you live on WKIL. Now here's one for the Skeleton Crew and all the rest of you crash queens..." and Joan Jett comes tearing through the speakers.

As the Trans Am tears back along the highway the signal drops, and Ray fiddles with the knobs on the car radio, working through bursts of static and snatches of city broadcasts, 'til he finds the station.

* * *

 _Main drag's lit up like a Christmas tree. Show Pony glides in quiet via the back streets, then doubles back and ducks under a tent-flap to get to the dup shop._

 _Keiko starts to close her laptop, startled and guarded, but relaxes when she recognizes Pony, opens it up again. Pony can see part of a complicated graphic open on the screen, but doesn't ask. No time._

 _"Got a card full of data burning a hole in my pocket," ze says. "Gotta turn those shiny bits to atoms yesterday, junkdoll. Can you do me some old-school vinyl?" Ze hands over the drive and Keiko raises her eyebrows, but she doesn't say a word, just plugs it into her laptop, frowning and firing up the software. Keiko pulls a headset out of a pile of wires and electronics and plugs it into the computer. She presses the earpieces over her ears with the palms of her hands._

 _Pony can't help but quirk a grin at the way Keiko's face lightens. She smiles, nodding to the beat, and her fingers tap against the folding table she's using for a desk. After about half a minute, she looks up at Pony, eyes shining. Pony smiles back and gives a saucy spin on hir skates, because, yeah._

 _The dup machine prints out disc after disc while they watch, building each one in microscopic layers, etching the music's grooves on the surface as if they'd been pressed the old-fashioned way. Analog, untraceable, unstoppable. This message is getting out no matter what motherfucker jams the waves._

* * *

LynZ hands over a stack of vinyl five inches thick: obscure queercore, riot grrl, and Nina Simone, wrapped in bright paper that probably cost her dearly. "A little sugar n' spice for your Doctor," she says, red lips twitching into an appreciative smile. "You've got our wave, babylonglegs. Call on us if there's need, Show Pony." She presses a cherry kiss into Pony's cheek, then flicks her visor down and nods to her crew, and they gun their bikes off to the highway back toward the Springs.

Pony can feel the greasy pink smudge cooling on hir jaw the whole way back to the station. Ze leans into the long pull of muscles skimming over the pavement, skates blurring forward and back.

A few miles from home, ze spies and narrowly avoids a white-clad patrol by ducking down the hill, cursing the soft sand fouling hir skates. Ze watches as the armored car pulls over and a drac gets out and carefully sprays solvent all over the elaborate neon sphinx some motorbaby had sprayed on the pavement. It makes hir jaw clench. The fuck, can't they give it a rest.

There's a car pulled up to one of the pumps when ze rolls in, a white Trans Am. It's covered in dirt and hissing, tiny swirls of steam rising up from the hood. It's been days since anyone has stopped at the station, and weeks since a stranger did.

Pony swipes hir hand down the side of the car, the caked-on grime crumbling away to reveal an American flag design painted on the wheel well. Fuck. The car doesn't belong to the dracs, but that's not necessarily reassuring. There are gangs of rightwing nutjobs hazing the borderzones and fucking up anyone different, could be theirs.

The back door is hanging open, creaking slightly on its hinges. Pony slips in, grateful ze took the time to tighten and oil that squeaky wheel on hir skate before last night's run. Pausing a moment to allow hir eyes to adjust, ze hears a murmur of tense voices filtering under the door to the main room. Pony fumbles for hir holster, hanging on the hook by the door, and thumbs the safety off before taking a deep breath and slamming the door open, gun aimed straight from the shoulder.

"Hold up, shimmyshine," Dr Death Defying rumbles. He's got his laser gun and his antique revolver trained firmly on two slender guys by the door, who're holding their hands up and looking about as freaked out as Pony feels. Well, the shorter bleach-blond one looks freaked out, muttering under his breath and jittering. The tall drink of water next to him doesn't have much expression, but ze can see the tension humming through his lean frame like lightning.

Pony glances over to hir left and sees a third guy, trussed up in speaker cable, thrown facedown and being sat on by Max, who gives a solemn nod. Pony sweeps each of them with a practiced eye, catching none of the usual telltale bulges of hidden weapons. Who the fuck are these people?

"Wanna clue me in here?" Pony asks evenly, pitching hir voice lower to mask the tremor of adrenaline.

"Look, we're not here to cause trouble," says the guy Max is sitting on, his voice high and nervous. He squirms a little, stupidly, like he can't believe he's being held captive by an eleven-year-old. Pony knows Max's moves in and out, hell, ze _taught_ the kid — that motherfucker is not going anywhere.

"You're Dr. Death Defying, right?" says the jittery guy. "We've been looking for you. Ray made this thing, I don't even know how it works, but it unscrambles your location or something. We mounted it on our dashboard and it makes this annoying beeping noise. So we headed out here to see if we could get you to help us out."

Doc tenses up at that, and Pony's not real happy either. Whoever these kids are, they sound like trouble. Nothing's untraceable, and they seem hotheaded enough they've probably got a bunch of dracs right on their tails. "Keep talking, kid," Pony says, cocking hir raygun with what ze hopes is a fair degree of menace. "Tell me why I shouldn't toast you right where you stand, rolling up here in that patriotic-motherfucker-mobile, bringing the heat right down on us?"

"Look, all we want is some help getting a message out. We're looking for someone, and we think he might be out here somewhere. We can, um, we can probably make it worth your while. We've got... stuff." He trails off, sounding like he doesn't know what else to say.

Long, Lean and Blond shakes the hair out of his eyes and gives a long-suffering sigh. "Look, you might have heard of us. We're the Killjoys."

"Killjoys? Those art motherfuckers who bombed BLI Media? Sorry if I don't believe you, sugar," Pony scoffs.

"We _are_ ," Jitters squeaks, indignant, waving his hands around more enthusiastically than is prudent when you've got two rayguns and a pistol aimed at your face. "We did that paintbomb thing, and we've been running back in there every few weeks, we've got a base in the city and we've got more stuff planned. Look, we've got a whole heap more projects in the works," he waves his arms, "but before we can move ahead we really have to find Frank because..." and here he kind of wilts, "because I'm fucking worried about him. We need him, too."

"That's a very nice fairytale, motorbaby. I'm still leaning toward dusting you just for fucking blowing my hideout. You better get convincing quick," Dr. Death Defying says, and Pony feels a chill at the soft, smiling tone of his voice. He is angry and he'll follow through on the threat, no question.

"Look, can we just," says Long, Lean and Blond, and motions awkwardly with his elbow, still keeping his arms up. "There's a stick in my pocket. Take a look."

Pony leers. "And here I thought you were just happy to see me." He rolls his eyes at that, so Pony nods to Max, covering the guy on the floor with hir raygun while Max gets up off him, finds the flash drive, and hands it up to Doc.

Doc wheels over to the beaten TV and sticks the drive in, cursing at the half-broken touchsensors until it finally starts to play a remix — Hitler, in a bunker, raging about Better Living. He closes it and looks at the file list, scans the metadata. "You get this from mikeyfuckinway?" he asks.

The guy on the floor bursts out laughing. "He _is_ mikeyfuckinway!" he says, then "Jesus, ow!" as Max yanks on the speaker cable to make him stay down.

Doc just looks at at him, and then at the others, eyes narrowed appraisingly.

Blondie says, "Yeah, I'm Mikey Way. And this is my brother Gerard, and that's Ray. Ray Toro, but you'd probably know hims as ‘torosaurus' on the tubes. And seriously, we _are_ the Killjoys."

Pony stares. "You. What? That's... your actualfact _name_? You're Mikey Way?"

The guy's face goes even more blank, but his eyebrow twitches a fraction defensively. "Yeah," he says.

Dr. Death Defying breaks his glower to cackle out the side of his mouth. "Mikeyfuckinway. That is the shittiest codename I've ever heard. I always thought some punkster came up with that handle as a dig at the one at BLI Media for pulling his shit off the channels."

The guy's lips just get thinner. It's fucking adorable, and Pony feels hirself relaxing a bit.

"Well, angels." Doc turns away from the screen, his craggy face cracking a grin. "Welcome to fucking WKIL. This here's Max, that there's Show Pony, though ze goes by Pony most days. You got more where that came from?"

Mikey nods. "What do you want? We've got a server full."

"Vinyl for preference," Doc says. "Anything analog. But you keep bringing us enough ones and zeroes, we'll sort something out. Now let's see what we can do about your boy Frank. Max, fire it up."

Max releases Ray and crawls under the desk, adjusting the cables and then climbs up onto the Doc's lap, fiddling with the switchboard controls. Gerard shuffles over to them, looking on and gnawing at his fingernail.

Mikey gives Ray a hand up. Pony catches hirself watching, and turns away, spinning over to the fridge and pulling out a jar of coffee. Ze strains it into five cups and cuts it with water. "No ice," ze says apologetically, "But it's honest-to-god cold black gold." Mikey's eyes widen a gratifying fraction, and he accepts his almost eagerly.

"Coffee?" Gerard perks up like a bloodhound on the scent. Pony wordlessly hands him two of the cups, which delights Gerard until he visibly realizes one is for Dr. Death Defying. He hands it over with a look of regret, but his smile is genuine when he takes a sip of the good stuff before turning back to the console.

"This here'll blast out to most of the dustheads in these parts," Doc says. "We've got the Springs covered, some of the borderzones."

Gerard stares at him. "The Springs?"

Show Pony rolls hir eyes. "It's Palm Springs, cupcake, though they're short on springs these days. Acidstorms knocked off the palms, too." Ze gives him a considering look. "You really are rolling out a new map out here, aren't you."

Dr. Death Defying just grunts and "You want anything beyond that, right down into Bat City, could be tough. Your spinheads back home handing off to you, you think they'd link their shit in to our pony express?"

"Like a relay?" Ray asks.

"Yeah," Doc says. "Signal-boost right down into the big smoke. We got a guy down there runs his own show, but if we can hook our shit together it'll be double the trouble. Reckon you can handle it?"

Gerard looks over to Mikey, who lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. "Yeah, probably," Gerard says.

"Pirate network. Aces, boys," Pony says, taking a sip of hir coffee. It feels like splinters going down hir parched throat. "Listen. We're head above water out here, getting the odd hard drive or stack of vinyl. Got a system in place for funneling shit on the crash queen network, but the more redundancy the shinier. P2P on the ground and the waves, junkbabies."

Mikey nods, shifting closer. "Yeah. Yeah, we can do that. We can get... a friend of mine, he's running our server. He's helping us with some other stuff already."

"You hook us up with a signal boost in the big smoke, baby boy, and you'll be my new favorite." Ze winks at him, and he blushes. Pony laughs. "Mikeyfuckinway. Need new handles first, or the dracs'll pull you down the instant you jack in cityside." Ze frowns critically at Ray, then spies the sharpie stars on the rubber tops of his chucks. "Jet Star. And you," ze casts a frankly appreciative look over Mikey. "Kobra Kid. Yeah," ze says, brushing hir fingers over the word spelled down his jacket sleeve. Pony grins at the bright spots that burn on his cheekbones.

Pony points at Gerard. "You'll stay here, just 'til they set up the link." Ze wags hir finger warningly at Kobra Kid, whose jaw drops in outrage. "We been on the wrong end of one too many motorbabies with acid-tongue promises. You come through for us and we'll give your boy back no problem." Gerard casts his brother a quelling look, then catches Pony's eye and nods gravely. Pony's respect for the guy goes up a couple of notches.

"What wave you sending, junkbaby?" Doc's saying to Gerard, who bites his lip.

"He likes old-school punk. Maybe Black Flag or something? He'll notice that," he says finally.

"Quiet!" Max says, waving impatiently at them and flipping on the mic, checking the broadcast inputs with the spare headset.

Doc speaks into the mic. "Burn bright and churn heavy, my dustangels, my vigilantes — we're sending up the signal for Frankie Spider, some killjoys here checking the web. Hit up the Show Pony crashlines, zoneskippers, and we'll make it worth the noise. Frank, if you're out there, Gee's waving the Black Flag and spinning this rawshit for you."

Gerard nods, pressing the headphones against his ear until Dr. Death Defying motions for them back. Pony drains the last of hir coffee and says, "You motorbabies want that trans to make it into the city, you'd better hit the dust."

* * *

Ray is not sure whether he's elated or freaked out. He drives like Gerard for once, dust spinning out behind his tires and Trans Am taking off down the middle of Route Guano. Mikey is sullen next to him, elbow stuck out the window and hair whipping back in the wind. He keeps tapping the flash drive against the car door, which drives Ray a little nuts because he's not sure what they'll do if he drops it.

When Ray gets tired of the heavy silence and turns on the radio, Mikey snarls and stabs at the power button, cutting off the Ramones. Ray glances over, and yeah. Mikey is pissed. He's never actually seen Mikey angry before, he doesn't think, and he's not really sure what to do.

"It'll be cool. They seem cool?" Ray tries.

"They've got Gee. It is not fucking cool."

"It's Doctor-Fucking-Death Defying, Mikey. He's not going to do anything to Gerard. Definitely not going to sell him out to the dracs," Ray says in his most calm assured voice. Mikey's fist is clenched in the hem of his shirt, and Ray has to try really hard not to reach over and twine his fingers in Mikey's and just rub at them until he relaxes.

"He doesn't like us."

"He doesn't know us. Anyway, he doesn't have to like us. He just has to not _not_ like us. And if we get this relay set up, he'll probably actually like us."

Mikey doesn't respond, just shoves his sunglasses further up on his nose and turns to stare glumly at the setting sun on the horizon.

"Show Pony seems okay," Ray says eventually. Mikey just ignores him even harder.

They make Bat City well after dark, but get stopped at the border and hassled a bit about Ray's registration stickers coming up due. The skate shop's got some lights on, though, and they head in there to find Wayne working on an enormous block print of a gas masked monster breathing fire from its air filters.

"Where's Pete?" Mikey asks.

Wayne grunts and points with his ink roller toward the back door. "Alley."

The first thing they see out there is Gabe with his arm braced against the brick, cigarette burning into ash while he leans down and casually explores Pete's mouth with his tongue. Ray looks down at Pete's black fingernails against the grey sweatshirt draping over Gabe's hip and feels kind of embarrassed, but Mikey just walks up to them like it's no big deal.

"Guys. We got some shit for you."

Pete disentangles himself as Mikey hands him the flash drive and Ray explains the deal. Pete just laughs and says, "Fuck, I'd do that anytime."

"You know WKIL?" Mikey asks.

"Duh," Pete says, and drags them back inside, where he waves at the iPod and speakers sitting on a shelf. Queen's playing. "We've been tuned to that shit for weeks. What do you need, just a relay? Signal boost?"

"Yeah," Mikey says. "Look, how long is this going to take? It's just — we left Gerard back there."

Pete rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says. "I can probably get it all set up in a few hours. Let me check some shit."

He takes the drive and plugs it into his laptop, pulling up a bunch of screens. Ray and Mikey don't have anything else to do so they watch over his shoulder. Mikey's got his arms hugged around himself. "It'll be fine," Ray says, quietly.

"I know," Mikey says.

"Jesus, guys," Pete says, "what is this shit?" He's scrolling through a file full of... Ray can't even tell. Looks like gibberish. "Okay, look," Pete says, ejecting the drive, "I'm gonna have to go into work to do this. Hey, Gabe?"

Gabe looks up from where he's sorting through a box of spraycans. "Yeah?"

"I gotta go into the data center, get behind the firewall. You wanna entertain these guys 'til I get back?"

"You don't have to —" Ray says, but Pete cuts him off.

"Yeah, he does," he says. "It's been getting weird round here lately. And don't think I can't tell how twitchy you are, Mikeyway." _Kobra Kid_ , Ray thinks, but doesn't say anything out loud. Pete plants a kiss on Mikey's cheek and folds up his laptop. "Look, I'll be a few hours. Why don't you hang with Gabe and he can tell you what he's been up to lately. There's glitter involved."

Gabe grins and says, "That's not the half of it. Hey, you guys hungry?"

There's a vegan diner not far away, and Gabe's a regular or something by the way the hippie-looking woman behind the counter greets him. "Here comes trouble," she says, but she's smiling.

"Hey Nadine," Gabe says, "You know what I want, right?"

Gabe's regular order is some kind of ridiculous triple-fake-bacon-fake-cheeseburger. Mikey gets fries and a soy milkshake, and Ray ends up going with the not-meatloaf.

"So what's been going on?" Ray asks, after their orders come. "Pete said things were getting weird."

"Nah," Gabe says. "It's nothing much. Just gotta be a bit careful. You seen this?" He gets up and grabs one of the free papers from a stand by the door. Gabe opens it to an article illustrated with a picture of a guy in a grey suit standing, arms folded in front of him, in front of screen projecting an image of one of Gerard's billboard designs.

"Huh," says Ray, and reads. It's one of those free papers full of ads, so it's not exactly heavy journalism, but the general gist is that there's been an increase in vandalism and cultural piracy, and that BLI aren't happy about it. "Stepping up enforcement?" Ray says, reading from the article.

"Yeah." Gabe shrugs. "Secretary Sato's getting pretty serious about it, lots of speeches about protecting culture, appointing a new head of the D.R.A.C. and all that. They've got all this new gear too, vans with antennas and shit. We haven't really seen much of it, but Pete's been monitoring the D.R.A.C. channels so we'll know if anything's coming our way. Hey," he says, snapping his fingers, "maybe he can feed that out to WKIL, get them to do, like, traffic reports."

Mikey's takes the paper from Ray and looks it over. He's frowning at the guy in the grey suit.

"Who's that, anyway?" Ray asks.

"Korse," Mikey says. "Gerard's old boss."

"No shit?" says Gabe. "Jesus, that's brilliant. He's the new D.R.A.C. dude, the guy they put in charge of all of it."

"Hmm," says Mikey. He doesn't look too happy about it.

"That's new," Ray says, pointing at the billboard shown on the page.

"Just went up last week," Gabe says. "Bunch of new kids — I don't think you know them. Stupid fucks nearly got busted, but they got out in time. There's gotta be, shit, maybe twenty billboards and murals now. I mean, total. They mostly get painted over pretty fast, but they're there long enough to get photos online. They're starting to go viral."

"Wow," Ray says. Last time they were in the city was just three weeks ago, and Ray had driven them to mural site number five, where Gerard and Travie and a bunch of aspiring young artists had turned the wall of a BLI Fitness gym into a version of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" (with Battery City's skyline in the foreground) in about twenty minutes flat.

"There's shit everywhere," Gabe says. "Hey, you wanna grab a beer after this? I can show you some of it on the way."

"Beer sounds good," Ray says, and Mikey nods. Ray realizes, when they get to the bar via a tour of neighborhood graffiti and art-bombed mailboxes, fire hydrants, and street signs, that it's been pretty much forever since he had a beer. They never drink it out in the desert, and the one time he mentioned it to Mikey, Mikey just shook his head and shot a glance over at his brother, so Ray didn't mention it again. But now, sitting on a hard barstool in an underground dive bar, tasting his first beer in ages, feeling the cool glass in his hand... it makes him feel almost normal for once, like he never left the city.

Mikey's sipping at his beer and checking his phone with the other hand. He frowns and closes it. "Anything?" Ray asks, wishing he could make Mikey stop worrying.

"Not yet." Mikey looks out over the dance floor. "I haven't been here for ages," he says. It's a good venue, the sort of place Ray used to go see shows back when he used to go see shows. From the complete lack of BLI crap all over the place, and the look of the hardass tattooed guy behind the bar, Ray figures it's probably not licensed. Good for them, he thinks.

Gabe's gone off to slap up some spider stickers in the bathroom, but he comes back after a few minutes, stepping smoothly through the crowd, smiling and hip-bumping people as he passes them. He's taller than just about everyone else there, so Ray can see him coming from a distance. "Hey, I still haven't told you about the glitter thing," he says when he arrives. "Wait, let me get another beer first. This is fucking epic."

The glitter story, which Gabe tells in a raised voice over the music, starts with a late-night break-in to a BLI department store, and leads, via a route that Ray can't quite follow and wishes he'd never had to hear at all, to Gabe's penis. "That shit gets fucking _everywhere_ ," Gabe crows, laughing like a hyena. "Seriously, like, weeks later I was still finding it. Hey, what are you drinking? I got the next round."

Mikey's still nursing his second beer, and Ray's had three and a half and started telling Gabe about getting tied up and sat on by a little kid, when Mikey's phone finally buzzes.

"It's Pete. He's done it," Mikey says. Ray leans over his shoulder and looks down at the phone, resting his chin on Mikey's shoulder. Mikey doesn't pull away, just lifts the phone up so Ray can read it. _relays up dude u o me 1 xo_.

* * *

Gerard tries to tell himself he's not a hostage, but actually, he kind of fucking is. It's not like he could get anywhere from here, so he's cooling his heels 'til the other guys get back. The good news is, Pony keeps refilling his coffee, and that kid Max made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and stood watching him eat it. He doesn't ask where the fuck they got _bread_ , Jesus.

He finishes the sandwich and lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing at his face absently, and looks around the room, taking in the space. "The fuck, is that a commercial sewing machine? You guys have the coolest random shit in here."

Pony laughs, pleased. "You know it is, motorbaby. You got some rags need richin'? That sad excuse for a lionskin, maybe?"

"You know, I've had this idea..." Gerard shrugs out of the jacket and pulls a pen out of his pocket, drawing it on the knee of his jeans. Straight out of BLI's Core Symbol Vocabulary, it's the design he made at the skate shop: a capsule, one end black and one white, with an X underneath it. "I want it in red," he says, "Here. Like Kaneda in _Akira_." He gestures a circle on the back of his jacket.

Show Pony arches a sardonic eyebrow at the design and squints at him. "Subtle's not a good look on you noway. Hand it here, I'll work it for you."

They both wince as the radio gives way to high-pitched feedback, then hisses into white noise before cutting out altogether.

"Goddamnit." Max crawls out from under the console, clutching pliers and electrical tape.

Doc growls and wallops the console with his crutch. "Fucking antenna." He turns and points the crutch at Gerard. "Hope your boy in Bat City can do the job," he says. "We need that signal boost."

Gerard winds up spending most of the afternoon outside, parked on the tarmac with his back to the graffiti-covered hoarding where there used to be windows. He draws cactuses and fast cars, followed by some spiders crawling over everything, then lifts a corner of the page and writes down a couple of lines of words that come to him. He flips the sketchbook closed when the boarding cracks open and the kid comes out and sits next to him on the step.

"Hey, um. Nice work in there with the radio and everything. Sorry your equipment fucking broke."

Max gives him an "are you for real?" look, and Gerard says, "Fuck, I shouldn't be swearing in front of you, should I? Again. Fuck." Gerard doesn't know what to say to kids, ever. He chews his lip and stares at her awkwardly, saying the first thing that comes to his mouth, which is, "So, Show Pony. Where'd he — uh, ze? — get that name?"

"Ze. Ze's like the pony express, delivering messages and stuff. It's, like, a joke?" She doesn't look too impressed at having to explain the humor to him.

"Right," Gerard says. "So, um. What's hir deal? I mean, you've got the radio station and all, but what's with the skates and all?"

"Ze gets us the goods from the big smoke, keeps hir crews connected, keeps the informatics flowing clean for the Doc. Plus ze's teaching me to skate and fight. I'm gonna be a crash queen, soon's I'm big enough for the road."

"That's a dangerous job," Gerard observes, then backpedals hastily at the way her brows draw together and her frown gets dangerous. "Not that you won't be awesome at it! What the fuck do I know, I'm a fucking pacifist. You're fucking great with machines and you know what you're doing in a tussle, I'm sure any crew would be glad to pick you up. It just doesn't seem like the job most kids dream about, right?"

Max's lip quirks slightly upwards. "I'm not most kids."

Gerard laughs, "Not really, no. Hey, do you like comic books though?" He flips the sketchpad open and skims past the first section, which is full of gore because he'd been having these nightmares and reading too much Warren Ellis while he was in the city. He can see when he'd gotten to the desert, because the horror and monsters and gore give way to expansive, open color, whimsy, and bolder lines and a lot of abstractions until he'd gotten the hang of gesturing in the landscape. He's just showing Max the top secret design for his latest superhero when Show Pony rolls out to join them.

"Here, that's the end of it," Pony says, handing him yet another cup of coffee. He sips it, and yeah, it's so good he doesn't even mind the grit of it catching against his teeth.

Pony sits down next to Max, glancing curiously at the sketchbook. "You got some squiggles there?"

Gerard tenses, then makes himself relax. It's one thing with a kid, but he doesn't like showing his art to strangers, because they always either coo over how wonderful it is or they don't say anything except 'that's nice' and he's not sure which of those responses he hates more. But there's not anything else to do, so he hands the book over.

Gerard's twitching his pen, wishing he had another sketchbook so he could draw the two of them as they flip through his drawings. They're an arresting image, Pony's long lean dancer's lines curved around the exuberant disarray of Max's clothes and matted, unwashed hair. Max's features are round and soft, so even though she's thin for her age she retains the babyfat to pull off cute. Show Pony's sharper, more striking, with high straight cheekbones and a mobile mouth. Even their colors contrast well, he thinks, taking in Max's warm, bright layered earth tones matched against Pony's simple blue, black and white.

"You know this is some aweshit here," Pony says finally, hir eyes crinkled with excitement that goes well beyond the merits of any of Gerard's doodles.

"You think so? I just do it to relax, you know, to get it out of my head."

"Gerard. You could use this shit. Trade it at the shitswaps. Send it on. Your fucking message isn't just about artbombing the big smoke, is it? Look," ze holds up the sketchbook to a color sketch of Mikey and Ray as masked superheroes working on a souped-up technicolor motorcycle. "This is fucking life here. This shit is for us."

Gerard frowns at that, taking the sketchbook back and skimming through it. There's a lot of imagery from the BLI Core Vocabulary, of course, but there's also a lot of the desert, of life on the road, of his tiny family of three and of the people who've been crossing their paths. "Huh. I hadn't thought about it that way. I mean, we're so busy doing this fucking art bombing stuff, fucking up BLI, but... you're right. Fuck."

"You want to give 'em hope, motorbaby, you gotta give 'em something to hope for, not just against," Pony says as ze gets up and heads back into the station, Max in tow.

The sun sets and Gerard eats another peanut butter and jelly sandwich and wanders around waiting for word to come in. He feels out of place, like he wasn't invited, but he can't exactly leave. In the end he just sits down on the floor and starts looking through the milk crates full of records that are lined up against the wall. It passes the time, and they've got some good shit there. That explains WKIL's playlist, at any rate.

He's just pondering Annie Lennox's blinding hotness when Doctor Death Defying appears at the door, a two-way in his lap. "Word's in," he says. "We're transing five by five in the big smoke. Looks like we just got fucking syndicated." He gives Gerard a once-over, like it's the first time he's actually looked at him, then narrows his eyes. "Been thinking. You wanna find that spiderboy of yours, you need another vector. You gotta push it home. Show Pony'll hook you up with the Skeleton girls down in the Springs." He laughs dryly. "Gonna need a lot of fucking luck." Then he turns on the spot and wheels out.

* * *

Frank's stacking cases of beer in the basement when Brian calls out to him. "Frank, get the fuck up here!"

He freezes, thinking _shit shit shit_ , but Brian calls out again, "Quick, you asshole. It's safe, I swear, just get the fuck up here." So he takes the stairs two at a time and finds Brian standing behind the bar with a cleaning rag in his hand staring at the speakers. Bob's sitting at the bar, even though the Pit's not open, and he doesn't have a drink or anything, but Frank just gives him a quick glance then looks at Brian looking at the radio. Black Flag's playing, "Rise Above".

"Yeah, what?" says Frank.

"You missed it," says Brian.

"You got a girlfriend we don't know about?" asks Bob.

"Only you, sweetie," Frank says, fluttering his eyelashes.

"Well, someone's dedicating songs to you," Brian says, "Guess you might be about to get lucky." Bob huffs a laugh.

"Fuck off," Frank says. "Just because you're not getting any." Bob raises his eyebrows, but doesn't have a comeback. Score one to Frank.

They leave the radio tuned in to WKIL after that, which is no real hardship. About a week later, it happens again, and this time Frank's there for the whole thing. _Frankie Spider_ must mean him, but who the fuck are the Killjoys? He couldn't just have one bunch of creepy fucks after him, oh no, now he has to have two of them.

"This is freaking me the fuck out," he tells Brian. "Who the fuck are these guys? I mean, it's _me_ , right? Why the fuck do they keep dedicating songs to me, what do they fucking want me to _do_?" he asks Brian, hoping against hope he'll tell Frank that he's just being self-centered and of course they don't _really_ mean him.

Brian gives him a pitying look. "Can you think of anything you did? I mean, it's obviously your name and music, but I don't see the spider connection."

Frank frowns. "Well it's not a secret I fucking love Halloween... could be that? I honestly don't fucking know." He racks his brain, but the only thing he can come up with is that sometimes he doodles spiders in sharpie on himself, and any asshole from his old haunts, at BLI or the punk clubs he used to go to, would have seen that shit. That doesn't tell him anything, but it does remind him of something else, horror dawning. "Fuck, you know those stickers we were scraping off the soap dispenser last week? Do you think that's the same people?"

Brain raises an eyebrow. "Could be. Question is, what are you gonna do about it?" Brian asks.

"I don't fucking know." Frank puts his head down on the bar and pounds it against the sticky surface a couple of times. "Fuck."

"Look," says Brian, "I asked around a bit. These Killjoys, they're desert punks, maybe burners, something like that. Some kind of art gang. I don't know what they want, but they're sure as hell not BLI."

"So, that's good, right?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. All I'm saying is, if you want to find out, I know someone who knows someone. If you want an intro."

Frank thinks about it for a long while. "I dunno," he says. "Do you think I should?"

Brian rolls his eyes in exasperation. "What am I, your mother? Look, all I'm saying is, mi basement es su basement and all that, but if I were you I'd be looking for a change of scenery."

"Yeah," says Frank. "Fuck. Yeah, let's do it."

Brian makes some calls, and the next day Frank gets a ride out of town then turns toward Palm Springs, out along what used to be Route 60. The directions Brian scribbled down on the back of an invoice seem like they might have gotten him somewhere a year or two ago, when the roads were actually marked, but they're less than clear now. He doesn't really mind, though, because a lot of the signs have been made over into fucking awesome sculptures and graffiti that says 'Route Guano'.

He hitchhikes most of the way with two young guys who don't talk much but go several miles out of their way to leave him close enough to walk, and point him in the right direction when they drop him off.

Brian's loaded him with water and protein bars. They taste exactly like sawdust but Frank nibbles at one anyway, walking next to the road, kicking at the sand just to watch it fly. He secretly hopes if he stomps around enough it'll scare off the spiders and scorpions and snakes and shit, but after a few hours and not seeing so much as an ant crossing the road, he starts to think the prevalence of scary ass creatures that kill you has been exaggerated. Or maybe they've all been killed by acid rain or climate change or something. Now there's a cheering thought.

He hits the outskirts of the Springs sometime mid-afternoon and kicks his way down the main drag into town, not sure what the fuck he's supposed to do now. He tries lurking around groups of people walking down the sidewalk or hawking wares on giant throws laid out on the concrete, listening for gossip, but that gets him exactly nowhere, so he turns and goes into one of the bars along the strip.

It's dark inside, just a couple of bulbs behind red shades, throwing weird shadows on a bunch of cheesy Mexican decor that looks like it's seen better days. The guy behind the bar raises an eyebrow at him.

"You got anything other than bucket margaritas?" Frank says, with a nod at the sign on the wall. It's got a smiling cactus on it. The guy just keeps looking at him. "Beer," Frank sighs.

It's good to be sitting down, anyway. He thinks he's got a blister from his sneakers. The beer, when it comes, is only slightly cool, but it's wet and it tastes good after the dust of the road. He takes a long sip.

"Hey," Frank says, figuring it's worth a try even if the guy's not very talkative, "I'm looking for someone. Do you know, uh, someone called the Skeleton Crew?"

The guy narrows his eyes. "Who's asking?"

Frank shrugs. "Friend told me to look for them. Or those Killjoys motherfuckers. You know where I can find them?"

Guy shakes his head, and looks past Frank to a table in the corner, where some other guys are sitting. They're giving Frank the stinkeye too. Okay, he gets it, nobody here likes answering questions. He sighs and finishes his beer.

He's got no idea where to go next, unless there's some kind of information center or directory service or something, which he fucking doubts. But there has to be something, some place where people know people and will talk to him, and he's going to find it. He pushes himself off his barstool and heads out.

"Hey." The voice comes from behind him as he stands on the sidewalk wondering which way to go. Frank turns. It's stinkeye guy number one from the table in the corner, the one with the shaved head. "Who are you? BLI?"

"What?"

"I said, who are you?" The guy steps into Frank's space, up close, and he's a good six inches taller than Frank. "You come in asking questions, I want to know who you are and why you're asking them."

"None of your fucking business," Frank says, and turns to leave, but the guy's hand comes down on his shoulder so he turns back.

"Some little BLI narc comes sniffing round asking questions, I think it's my business."

"Fuck you," says Frank, and shoves the guy, and that's when the guy punches him in the face. There's a burst of red behind Frank's eyes, and he staggers for a moment before straightening up and going for it.

He lands one decent blow, and the guy's lip's bleeding, when he hears someone call out, "Hey, the fuck?" The voice is high and tight, coming from behind Frank's back.

The guy Frank's fighting takes a step back but Frank keeps his fists up and an eye on him. Then the guy spits on the ground, says, "Stay the fuck away from here," and walks away. Frank turns around. There are two girls, and seriously, what the fuck? He doesn't need help, and he definitely doesn't need it from them. He's about to open his mouth and say so but they're coming towards him and they look kind of pissed, and to be honest they could probably kick his ass.

"What are you doing?" says one of the women, the one wearing a cap over short choppy hair. "You want to bring the patrols down?"

"I didn't —"

She doesn't stop to hear what he has to say, just looks back over her shoulder as she hears motorcycles coming down the strip, and there's a flash of lights.

"See?" she says, and grabs him by the shoulder. Frank's really sick of being grabbed, but before he can complain the other girl grabs his other side, and they hustle him round a corner and down a side street 'til they're a block or two away from the main drag.

* * *

Ray geeks out a little — okay, a lot — when Show Pony lets him check out hir raygun while its powercells are charging from the generator. "Wow," he says, "I've never actually handled one of these before. Where did you get it? Do you think we're going to need to get guns, too?"

"Don't even ask, dustbaby," ze says. "To both questions. You better hope the Springs are quiet toneve."

Pony also gives Gerard his jacket back. "You are fucking party poison, motherfucker," ze says, holding it up to show the pill-and-cross design done in bright red against the blue. "We have a fucking call sign." Gerard is too busy admiring it in the cracked bathroom mirror to protest the designation, he just mumbles something about actually fucking meaning what he wears.

Doc bitches about having nobody round to make him coffee, but laughs in Gerard's face when Gerard earnestly invites him along. "I left that field trip shit behind me when I became the voice of the fucking revolution," he says. "'Sides, I've got the place to myself for once. That don't happen every day." He winks lasciviously at Gerard and Ray and points at the door. "Good luck, motorbabies."

It takes most of the afternoon to get to the Springs even though Gerard's driving at least fifteen miles above what used to be the speed limit. Ray actually dozes off for a while, and only wakes up when Gerard whacks him with the map. The sun's low on the horizon.

"Wake the fuck up, man," Gerard whispers, and Ray glances at the backseat, where Pony, Max and Mikey are cuddled up and zonked out. It's like the world's leggiest puppy pile. Ray feels a sappy grin crawl across his face and something curling protectively in his belly. He pushes the feeling aside and takes the map Gerard's waving around under his face.

"Okay," he says, spreading the map out on the dashboard. "Once we get into town we're relying on Max and Pony to take us to where we're going. Crash queens say there are cameras all over, so we'll want to leave the car somewhere out of the way." They _really_ don't want to run into any D.R.A.C. patrols, especially now they know they're meant to be stepping up enforcement.

They park behind a row of boarded up houses on a run-down side street. Ray leans into the backseat and gently wakes everyone up. Max's eyes are big and kind of shiny as she blinks herself awake. For a moment Ray has misgivings again about bringing her along, but she probably wouldn't have stayed at the station even if they'd tried to make her, and anyway Pony says she knows the area.

Pony shepherds them through the back streets, while Max runs ahead and scouts around. "What's she looking out for?" Ray asks, as Max ducks back round a corner and beckons to them.

"Trouble," Pony says. "Dracs, motorgangs, anyone who might want a piece of your pretty ass." Ray snorts, and ze fixes him with a look. "Not kidding, baby."

* * *

It's quiet back here. They stop under a spindly palm, a tangle of electrical wires hanging between it and the buildings, and the two girls let go of Frank. He shakes his shoulders, and glares at them.

"What did you do to piss him off, anyway?" asks the other girl, the one who's not wearing a cap. This one's got a kind of round face and a ponytail, doesn't look quite so hardass, though that's relative, since she's pretty solid and looks like she knows how to use her hands.

"Nothing," he says. "Asked some questions. Guess they didn't like that." He shrugs, and touches his face, trying to see what kind of damage he took. He thinks he's probably going to have a black eye. "Ow."

Cap girl rolls her eyes at him, but she relaxes a little, stops looking like she wants to beat him up. She's kind of cute when she's not being terrifying, her hair dyed in streaks of blonde and blue under her cap, and hard lines of eyeliner under her eyes. "Yeah, well, if you were asking questions in there you were probably asking for it. Are you new or something?"

"Uh, yeah?"

She looks at him and laughs. "Yeah, guess so."

Frank shrugs. Whatever. He digs out his water bottle and takes a swig from it, spits, then downs the last few mouthfuls. When he's done, cap girl reaches into the pocket of her canvas jacket and pulls out another water bottle and hands it to him without a word. He gives her a look, but she just looks at him, so he drinks about half of it before handing it back.

"Thanks," he says.

"Don't mention it," she says. "Looked like you needed it." She drinks some of what's left then passes it to her friend, who finishes it and stuffs the bottle in her bag.

"So, uh, thanks anyway, for that..." he says after an awkward silence, and waves towards the main street. Getting caught by a BLI patrol would have been bad, he'll admit that. "I'm Frank. Um, Frank Iero."

"You're really not from around here, are you?" she says. "Frank. Shit, that's your real name. You gotta be careful. How long you been here?"

"Just got here," Frank says. "Today."

She gives him an appraising look. "You got somewhere to crash, yeah?"

"Um, not really," he says. "I'm looking for someone, thought I'd try and find her first. She's a drummer with some, uh, crew. I don't know." He shifts and pulls the piece of paper Brian gave him out of his back pocket. "I've got fucking references and everything."

"Let me see that," she says, and takes it from his hand.

He gives it up, saying, "I'm just trying to figure out what these Killjoy motherfuckers want from me, and Brian, Brian Schechter at the Pit down in Zone 1, he said to try and get in touch with Kitty or this Skeleton Crew. Don't suppose you know them?"

"Frank, I _named_ the fucking Skeleton Crew. And yeah I know Kitty. Fucking Biblically." She grins and sticks her hand out, and he shakes it, bemused. Then she shoots a look at her friend and cracks up laughing, and her friend's laughing too, and Frank doesn't get what's so fucking funny until Jamia says, "Frank, I'm Jamia, and this is Kitty. Guess you've found her."

"Wait, are you for real?" Frank says, staring at Kitty. "You're _Kitty_? No way."

"Take it or leave it," she says.

"Shit, okay," Frank says and laughs right back at them. "Wow, that's... yeah. Pretty random."

Jamia shrugs and grins, showing teeth. "Skeleton Crew's everywhere. Don't mess with us. Shit, Brian fucking Schechter. Long time since we heard from him."

They find him a place to stay, back room of a tent set up in what used to be a parking lot, just off the main strip. "All the tourists and rich assholes fucked off when the water ran out," Jamia explains. "No water, no golf courses. Most of the resorts are taken over by other folks now. You mostly don't want to mess with them. Anyone else, ‘specially anyone new, gets to stay in Tent City."

Front half of the tent's open to the dusty street, and there's a woman working a laptop that's speaking to her, reading out locations as she taps the keys. "Maria?" Jamia says, pausing under the awning. "It's Jamia and Kitty. And I want to introduce you to Frank." She nudges Frank with her elbow, and Frank says, "Hi." Maria's blind, he realizes.

"Hey," Maria says, and shuts the laptop, turning to them and looking somewhere just over Frank's shoulder. "Come on in." The tent's pretty basic, a couple of cots with sleeping bags, a cooler, some folding chairs, a plastic table like you used to see on people's lawns in the suburbs. There's a cheap printer and a pile of paper on the table, and more pinned to the inside of the tent flap, Frank sees when he gets in. Maps, he realizes, all of the area around Battery City.

"Frank's new, looking for somewhere to stay," Kitty says to Maria once they're all crowded inside. "You got room?"

Maria just looks in their direction, facial expression not giving anything away. "Better wait 'til Carmen gets back," she says.

Carmen's the other sister — Carmen and Maria Lopez, Frank learns — and their business is maps. That and renting out the back half of their tent. Jamia digs into her pocket, and Carmen puts out a hand to stop her. "Don't you even think about it," she says. She's determined-looking, and Frank can tell she won't back down. "You girls've done enough for us."

Jamia nods. "We'll find him some food and water before I go, so he won't need anything," she says. "Look," she says, pulling Frank aside, out under the awning, and lowering her voice, "You might have to stay here a little while, okay? I'll try and find out about these Killjoys for you, but you gotta trust us. Don't go out on your own. You know what happened earlier. You're new, you don't know who's who or what's safe and —"

"I can look after myself," Frank cuts in.

"No, you really can't," she says. "Just — don't be a fucking idiot, okay? You got lucky today. That gang's nothing much, they're small time. But there's some real assholes out here, and that's before we even talk about the Blight. And I'd rather you lasted more than about two fucking seconds."

Frank raises an eyebrow at her. "Oh yeah?"

She just rolls her eyes. "I'm just trying to be a friend, asshole. Trust me, you leave this tent, you'll get your ass kicked so fast —"

"Yeah, yeah, alright," he says, grudgingly, and kicks at a tent pole. This is going to suck.

"Look, we've got some shit we gotta do," Jamia says, looking over her shoulder at Kitty. "I'm gonna go get you some stuff, get you settled in, and then we'll have to bail."

"I'll give him the nickel tour," Kitty says with a sweet smile, and she shoves affectionately at Jamia, who grins back, flips her off, and ducks out of the tent.

Kitty and Frank follow her outside, and Kitty points between a row of canvas tents to what looks like a fucking outhouse. "Okay, smallfry, the shitter's down there." He glares at her for the name, but she just laughs. "No waste plumbing here in the tent city, they've got port-a-potties but they don't get emptied too often, so..." She wrinkles her nose. "So far the drinking water's still clean, though you want to get it boiled or cycled if you can, be on the safe side. Or you can buy it bottled down at the end of the row to the right. Costs more with the BLI seal still on, but that's the safest bet. Lots of people selling food down there, too, but Jamia'll bring you some canned stuff so you don't have to go out." Kitty grins at him. "Welcome to fucking Springs."

Frank resists the urge to make a face. The port-a-potties are several tents down but the stench carries in the heat. But he doesn't want to seem weak in front of Kitty, so he puts on his best look of nonchalance. "Got it. If I get hungry — or have to take a shit — I'll just follow my nose one way or the other," he says, shrugging.

Kitty claps him on the back. "Damn straight, sugar. You need anything else, you ask Maria or Carmen. They know their way round. You got a phone?"

"Threw it away," he says.

She raises an eyebrow at that, but just says, "Alright, you need to get in touch with us, the Lopez sisters will know how. They know most things, shit people need, so they mostly get left alone. You'll be pretty safe here for now."

"I'm not much good at sitting round doing nothing," he says, grimacing at the tent, because ugh, it's about six feet square and has nothing but a cot in it.

She laughs. "This is the Springs. Learn to kick back and relax." He pokes his tongue out at her, and she pokes hers back at him, then she says, "You could talk to Maria or Carmen. They might be able to find something for you to do."

"Mm, maybe," he says. He glances sidelong up at her. "So... you're a drummer?"

She stiffens a little, her expression going carefully blank as she looks away. "Not lately," she says. "Who told you that, anyway?"

"Brian down at the Pit. My old boss. He sent me out here looking for you." Frank watches her, hoping he hasn't said the wrong fucking thing. Brian'd said his information was old, and now  
Frank's got no fucking clue what kind of fucked up history he's stumbling around in.

Kitty relaxes a fraction, her eyes going from suspicious to sad. "Brian, yeah. I remember him. Good guy. Hell of a fighter — motherfucker didn't even need the bouncers, I once saw him deck a guy easily twice his weight. We — my old band, we played a few gigs in the Pit. Before the wars, and," she bites her lip, then shakes her head. "Well. Let's just say I was playing with an old friend I hope I never fucking see again."

Frank doesn't know what the fuck she's talking about, but he's pretty sure it's not Bob, so he tries to change the subject, saying, "My buddy Bob Bryar, he used to drum, played the Pit sometimes. You ever see him?"

Kitty's face lights up. "Bob the Bear!" she says, and her laugh seems to bubble up from her toes. Frank can't help but grin back. "I am pretty sure he'd punch me in the face if I called him that. Fucking Bob the Bear," Kitty laughs. "Shit, what's he up to?"

"Sound tech for BLI," Frank says. "Some kind of contract thing — goes everywhere."

She shakes her head. "BLI? Really?"

"He kind of does his own thing," Frank says. "He's not, you know — he's contract. Hangs out at the Pit a lot, still. He's okay."

"Mmhmm," she nods. "Do what you gotta, I guess. Not a choice I'd want to make, but then... Hey, you hungry, puppy?"

"Puppy?" Frank says.

"He followed us home," she sing-songs, making big eyes, and Frank swats at her shoulder. "Ow! Hey, you want tamales or not? Stay," she says, firmly, and from the glint in her eye, Frank's pretty sure she's never gonna stop calling him that.

They sit on the edge of Frank's cot to eat the tamales, pulling them apart with their fingers and letting the steam out. Kitty doesn't seem to want to talk any more about the Pit or about bands, but she tells him about the Springs, and about her crew. "We'll talk to them," she says, "see if we can bring you by to meet them tomorrow or something. LynZ's probably got some leads — she's more in the art scene than me and Jamia."

They're still talking and licking their fingers when Jamia comes back. She's got a bag full of canned food and a six-pack of water bottles held together with plastic, and she's looking antsy. Kitty quirks an eyebrow at her.

"LynZ called," Jamia says. "Something going down."

She drops the supplies and grabs the tamale Kitty saved her, pulling it apart and finishing it in record time, sucking the mess off her fingers while Frank stashes the cans and bottles under the cot, and speaking with her mouth full. "We've gotta go, but we're gonna see what we can find out about these Killjoys, alright?" Frank nods. "If we find anything we'll let you know," she says, then fixes him with a look that reminds him of his mom. "Keep your head down."

"Stay," says Kitty, backing out of the tent, laughing at him while Jamia looks at her like she's cracked. "Good boy."

Frank flips her off and lies back on his cot. Welcome to the fucking Springs, he thinks.

* * *

Their destination's a little resort off the main drag called the Queen of Hearts. Pony jimmies the gate somehow with a bit of metal ze was carrying, and they all go inside, trailing into the lobby one after the other. The ceilings are low, the colors are garish, and the carpet is worn down and caked with dust. There are creepy-ass skeletons painted across one wall, standing out eerily in the darkening twilight.

Pony leads them through the foyer into the resort proper. "Decorators should have laid off the Pepto Bismol," Ray observes when they enter one of the suites and Mikey turns on his flashlight. Max immediately goes and tangles up in the beaded curtain, looking a little bit chagrined at the rattle.

Gerard's got a soft look on his face. "I love pink," he says, beaming at the sitting chair upholstered in fuschia in the corner. Ray can't believe this guy is for real sometimes, but he actually seems to mean it. He moves across the room and presses his face to the sliding glass door, looking out at the courtyard and the empty pool. It's full of trash and looks like someone tried to light a bonfire in there once or twice. There's a tree nearby, weird twisted metal things hanging from its branches and swinging in the faint breeze like a mobile.

There's a low, menacing chuckle, and they all turn in surprise to find two women who look like they could fuck you up without breaking a sweat.

"Shit," Gerard says helpfully.

Pony rolls forward, arms spread in the universal gesture for "I am unarmed and not a threat". Or at least, that's what Ray _thought_ the gesture meant, until ze flings hir arms around the leader, a tall woman with badass pigtails and a holstered raygun worn outside her jacket, which is embroidered with a skull that matches the skeleton paintings on the walls of the foyer.

"Sugar!" She laughs, then peers over hir shoulder at Max. "And there's the spice! Darlin, you here to join up with the Skeleton Crew? We could use a girl with some mech-savvy. Make it worth your while."

Max smiles at that and tugs Mikey forward. "LynZ and Alicia of Skeleton Crew, Killjoys," she says solemnly, waving her arms in a grandiose circle at them all. Ray has to admit, the kid has flair.

"This is a quick run, dollface, some ones and zeroes from our boys here," Pony says, slipping her a plastic-wrapped bundle of flash drives. "They're looking for someone, thought you might have your ear to the ground. Heard any buzz on Frankie Spider?"

"He's a small guy, shorter than me, dark hair." Gerard cuts in, scrubbing nervously at his forearm. "Tattoos," he adds. "We just want to know he's safe. He got fired from BLI, he could be anywhere."

She ignores the question and pins the Way brothers and Ray in turn with a glare of steel. "So you're the Killjoys. Some fucking nerves on you. Heard what you did at BLI Media. Have to say, I thought you could've thought of something new before hitting BL Invest. No imagination." She shakes her head.

"What? We never touched BL Invest," Ray says. "Did we?" He looks at Gerard, who shakes his head.

"S'not like we're short on ideas anyway," Mikey adds, and Pony glances up and flashes a quick grin at him. Mikey ducks his head and his eyes flick to Ray and then down at his shoes. Ray frowns and files that away for later.

Alicia laughs bitterly. "Sounds like you've got groupies, then," she says. "They're paying your dues. Your fucking spiders are tipping off the dracs, bringing them down on the rest of us. Heard four guys got tagged last night here in the Springs, spraying a parked dracmobile. Tent-town's buzzing mad." She's got spiky long hair and smudged eyeliner. The fierce look she casts at Ray makes him feel like a complete shithead. He remembers what he saw in the city. He'd brought a copy of the free paper back to show Gerard, who'd looked pretty grim as he read the article.

Everybody's looking at Gerard, and Gerard's looking at his boots. "Fuck, I _know_ ," he says. "It's the same in the city. Are they okay? The four guys, I mean?"

"Who the fuck knows," Alicia says. "Probably gonna do a stretch of time for your stupid shit. We had our own art out here already, you know." She looks over at LynZ. "Knew how to get away with it, too."

Gerard frowns. "I — I never thought about that. I mean, I had to do it for me, for Frank, but if it's putting kids at risk. Maybe — maybe you can help us? Tell us how to fly under the radar, and when we get back to base, we'll talk to our guys, we'll make sure there's a safety net, a fucking way out if shit goes south and the dracs show up. Get the word out somehow, make sure everyone looks out for each other." LynZ and Alicia are just glaring at him, and he winds down.

Mikey glares around the room and wraps an arm around Gerard. "Look, have you guys heard anything about Frank, or what?"

LynZ shakes her head, an emphatic no. Alicia stares at them belligerently for a moment, then shakes her head too. Ray feels his heart sink. The look on Gee's face is impossibly defeated.

They're interrupted by the sound of another woman running across the resort's courtyard, yelling to get their attention. Pony opens the door and she spills in, out of breath and eyes wild. "Fucking dracs headed this way, just picked them up buzzing on the cloud, whole swarm of the motherfuckers. We gotta split."

"Fuck, Jamia," Alicia says. "How close are they?"

"Five minutes. Probably less."

"What do they want?"

"Fuck knows. The usual bullshit, showing the BLI colors. Who are these motherfuckers?" She looks at Gerard and Mikey and Ray as if they're just another annoyance at a bad time.

"Killjoys," LynZ says tersely. "Where's Kitty?"

"She's coming," Jamia says. "She was right behind me."

"We've got a car!" Ray blurts, trying to be helpful, though now that he's said it aloud he knows they can't possibly all fit. Shit. LynZ rolls her eyes at him, and Ray realizes they must have their own transportation.

They head out through the back, sliding past the pool. LynZ and Pony scout ahead, looking out the back gate to see if the coast is clear.

"Motherfucker," says LynZ. There are lights flashing out there. They must be close. "You think you can break through if we cover you?" she says to Pony.

Pony looks back at Ray and the rest of them, and nods. "Stay down 'til I say," ze says, "Then run like fuck. Car's that way."

Ray's crouched down behind the gate, Gerard on one side of him and Jamia on the other. She looks over at him, then at Gerard and Mikey, as if she's sizing them up. "You're the Killjoys?" she says.

"Yeah," Ray answers.

"Heard a lot about you," she says, and looks like she's about to say something else when Pony shouts at them to move. Jamia's pushing them out the gate and they're off and running.

They make it most of the way to the corner when a blinding spotlight picks them out and a trio of agents surrounds them.

Ray can't seem to breathe. Mikey's frozen in place too, and beside them, Gerard grabs Max and clutches her close. After all this, it looks like they're gonna be taken in on a random culture sweep. What a stupid fucking way to get arrested.

But Pony keeps moving straight at the lights and the dracs, and LynZ and Jamia start firing from behind them. The _pew pew_ sound of their rayguns isn't funny at all, it's fucking scary. Ray's not used to this — he had a fucking _office job_ and sure it sucked and it was boring and he wanted out of there, but now suddenly he's in the middle of a firefight, and _what the fuck_? He can hear the static snap and buzz and see the lightning-flashes of shots finding their targets, and some of the dracs are going down, twitching. Then the dracs pull their own guns, and Ray winces as a sharp spark of light whizzes past his face too. He doesn't know — he _thinks_ the D.R.A.C. only have tasers or stun weapons or something, but he doesn't exactly want to find out first hand.

Ray sees one of the dracs grab hold of Mikey's hair, yanking him to the ground with one hand and smashing his knee into Mikey's face. He hears Gerard yell, but he's still holding on to Max and can't get to him. Mikey is dazed and blood is pouring from his nose, and Ray has to fucking do something.

"Motherfucker," he screams, and launches himself at the drac. They all go down in a tangle of limbs, and Ray thinks he manages to land a blow or two on the drac before the drac pulls his weapon. Ray finds himself looking down the barrel of a raygun as the drac says something about offenses against BLI's intellectual property regulations. Ray clutches at Mikey's arm.

The drac looks up suddenly as a blast zings past his head. In that moment, Pony comes into view, and takes the drac out with a well-placed skate to the jaw before giving Ray and Mikey a hand up off the pavement.

"Fucking go! Get out of here!" LynZ yells, and Ray sees the opening. He runs, still holding on to Mikey's hand, thighs pumping almost as fast as his rabbiting heart. Gerard and Max are close behind, and Pony's covering their retreat, LynZ and Jamia splitting off and firing parting shots as they break for the cover of a broken-down truck, heading towards their concealed bikes. Ray can hear more commotion in the distance, shouting and gunfire and megaphones and breaking glass. They need to get the fuck out before they're caught in a full-scale riot.

They reach the Trans Am and Ray's hands are shaking so bad he can't pick the right key they're rattling so much, and he swears and jams one in the lock and bangs the door open, and then Gerard and Max are diving in the backseat and scrabbling to make room. Ray pushes Mikey in with them, and Pony scrambles into the shotgun seat, then Ray takes off, tires screeching.

"Jesus, fuck," says Gerard. "We were _that_ close to being arrested." He twists and looks back out the rear window, at the Skeleton Crew tearing away on their motorcycles, and the white-suited bodies lying on the road. "They're not — they're not dead, are they?"

"No such fucking luck," Pony says, and flicks a switch on hir raygun. "Set to stun. Hurts like a bitch, though. Take my advice, junkbaby, don't go standing in front of one if you can help it."

"Yeah, thanks, got that," Ray says, forcing himself to relax his grip on the steering wheel and looks over at Mikey in the passenger seat, his face all bloody. Everyone's still breathing hard and they all stink of sweat and fear, but Ray doesn't fucking care about anything but that the people in this car are not fucking unconscious and being carted off to a BLI detention center or wherever it is that they take fucking _art criminals_ or whatever they are. He turns onto the highway and they leave the Springs in the dust behind them.

* * *

Jamia pulls up round back of the Lopez sisters' tent, cuts her bike's engine, and parks it. There's no other bike here, but doesn't necessarily mean anything. She stumbles into the tent and sweeps her flashlight in a circle, her heart sinking when she finds nobody there but Frank.

"Hey, what's going on?" Frank says groggily, pushing himself up on one elbow. He was sleeping.

"Dracs," Jamia bites out. "You seen Kitty? I was hoping she'd be here. Fuck."

Frank shakes his head, squinting into the light. Jamia sighs heavily, then strips off her jacket and digs a water bottle out from under Frank's cot and chugs it. The water doesn't do much for the tight feeling in her throat. "City's rioting," she says. "Dracs everywhere, almost didn't make it down here. Waveheads are popping, some of the gangs baring teeth against the squads, they're cracking up and down."

Frank stares at her, his face lit in dramatic shadows by the angle of her lantern. "Shit. Your crew?"

Jamia looks at her boots. "Me and LynZ and Alicia got out alright. Don't know what the fuck happened to Kitty. She was behind me, lost sight of her." She rubs at her eyes, not caring when the makeup smears into them and starts burning. "Dracs hit the House. So, I gotta crash here tonight. Guess it's your lucky night, stud," she says, and she forces a smirk into her expression.

He doesn't smile back. "Of course. Uh," he says, and then he grins sheepishly. "Hand me my pants?"

"Jesus. Fucking nudist." She grabs his pants off the floor and throws them at him, turning her back.

"Okay," he says, and when she turns around he's sitting on his cot, fully dressed.

"They're tough motherfuckers, my girls." Jamia says. "I've seen LynZ fuck up a gang of five motorheads, just her and that wicked piece of hers. Show Pony was there, too, ze's good to have at your back. Kitty'll be aces." She's trying to convince herself more than him.

"Sure," he says. It's not like he knows anything anyway, so he's probably just trying to be reassuring. Whatever. She realizes she's just standing there like an idiot, so she uncrosses her arms and starts pacing. Crossing back and forth across the tent isn't much better than standing still, but at least she's moving, and it should help her think. If she could think at all with the way her mind's spinning.

"So, uh, did you want to lie down?" Frank asks after a while, holding back a yawn. "Because if you need another cot or something..."

"What? No, it's... I'm okay." Jamia keeps pacing. Kitty's probably just holed up somewhere, with one of their friends. Could be any of a dozen places, probably lost her phone or doesn't want it traced. They've been separated plenty of times before, it's not that unusual. It just makes her skin itch and her head ache, is all.

"Okay, because you're gonna keep me awake like that, so if you want to crash..." He lies down, and wriggles back to one side to make room on the cot, patting it with his hand.

"You wish," Jamia says, automatically. Frank just waggles his eyebrows, and it makes her laugh. "Shit, whatever." She lies down, facing away from him, and he reaches over and flicks off the lantern.

"She'll be back," he says. "She knows you'd fucking kill her if she got herself ghosted, right."

Jamia manages a weak smile, and closes her eyes. "I don't know what the fuck is going on," she says into the darkness.

"Shut up and get some sleep," Frank says.

She lies awake for a good long while, 'til she hears Frank's breathing steady behind her, and it lulls her to sleep too.

She wakes up in the weak light of dawn and drags herself out to take a piss. When she comes back, Frank's awake. He looks at her as she comes back into the tent, and she shrugs and lies down again. Her space on the cot's still warm, and he throws the unzipped sleeping bag over her, then pulls his hand back, maintaining some space between them even though the cot's too narrow to make it comfortable.

"Thanks," she mumbles. She's going to have to get up soon, figure out where Kitty is, but there's not much point starting before it gets light. It sounds quieter, at least — she can't hear any sirens or raygun-fire, so maybe things will have settled enough for her to go visit some people, see if Kitty's in any of the usual places.

"Sounds quiet out there," Frank says, softly.

"Yeah."

"It always like that?"

"Nah," Jamia says. "Fuck no. It's been okay lately, you know? Last night was... I don't know what that was about. They just came out of nowhere."

"Huh," says Frank. She can tell he's thinking about the patrol that came down the main drag, almost caught him outside that bar.

"It's not just the patrols," she says. "There's always patrols, but they're not like this. I mean, we're crash queens. We see more of the shit and violence and we're always walking that line, slipping through all the cracks in the fucking system. I've done my share of fucking people up. But this? They're sending in dracs and swat teams to fuck up some fool punk artists? No way."

Frank's quiet for a bit, then he says, "That art shit... the stuff you dustheads have been pushing out on the waves, that's the shit I followed out here."

"Not me," Jamia says. "I'm no artist. LynZ, sure, but that's not me."

"Whatever. This... this whole thing. Everything out here. It's so different. You know why I came out here? I used to work for BLI." He pauses, waiting for her to say something, but she keeps her mouth shut and he continues, "They fired me for being a fucking pansy. Like they fucking know one way or another. They just _assumed_. I wasn't even fucking anyone or talking about it or anything. Most of the time I wasn't even _thinking_ about it, I was just doing my job."

Huh. She wouldn't have picked him for gay, but then she's not the type to put people in boxes. "I hear they're not real big on individuality," she says.

He snorts. "That's a fucking understatement."

"So are you? A — gay, whatever?"

Frank shrugs. "I guess _whatever_ more or less covers it, yeah."

Jamia nods. "Uh huh, well, me too. I mean, you knew that, with Kitty and all. I mean, not always, but, yeah." And fuck, Kitty's out there somewhere, and Jamia needs to get her ass in gear and go find her, but first she has to deal with the other thing on her plate. "So, I met the Killjoys," she says. "That's where we were going, when the dracs... we had a meet."

"Oh," says Frank. There's an awkward silence, and she can feel how tense he is next to her. Eventually he says, "Who are they?"

Jamia shakes her head. "I didn't get their names. LynZ and Alicia talked to them — I got there after, when the dracs were already on us. There's three of them. Their leader, he's... he seems alright. Shitty bleach job. Cute." She looks sideways at him to see what he thinks of that, but he just looks kind of interested. "Said he was going to find you before anyone worse did. I didn't tell them where you were, wanted to let you know first. But if you wanna find them, I guess we can hook you up."

"Fuck," Frank shifts in the bed, starting to sit up. "Who the fuck are they? What do they want? Jesus, Jamia, these people have this fucked-up spider campaign about _me_ and they were here in the Springs and I missed it? Fuck, no. I've gotta find out where these fuckers are and what they want with me. I've gotta..."

"No!" Jamia says. "Wait 'til shit dies down. You go out there now showing that pretty stupid face of yours and you'll get it messed up sure, or worse, run into a drac and get disappeared. Fuck no." She clutches his wrist, and she doesn't even care that her fingernails are probably going to leave marks. "Look, I'm gonna talk to LynZ, she's got contacts, she'll know how to get you out to the dust safe. You'll have to stay here until I say it's okay, though. I have to hit the market strip and the aid tents..." she trails off, her throat suddenly dry.

"Yeah," Frank says, "Shit, can I help you look for Kitty?"

She shakes her head. "Just stay here, alright? I don't want to be looking for two of you."

"Alright," he says. She lets go of his wrist, and he reaches out and gives her a quick shoulder-hug. "Hey, you'll find her. Then we'll all go find the Killjoys, okay?"

She nods, not quite trusting herself to get words out, then pulls away and tries to find her jacket on the floor in the half-light, so she can get out there and start doing what needs to be done.

* * *

Mikey wakes up suddenly in the pre-dawn with his heart thumping. It takes him a moment to figure out where he is, but eventually Gerard and Ray's sleeping forms on either side of him and the looming stack of electronics against the wall resolve into something he can understand, and the formless panic that woke him up recedes.

It's not even light out yet. He can't remember the last time he actually woke up to see the dawn, instead of staying up for it. But his face aches where the drac's knee hit him, and he can't fucking get back to sleep, so he crawls carefully out of his sleeping bag and feels around for his jeans and tries to pull them on as quietly as he can.

Ray rolls over into the spot Mikey vacated, mumbling something in his sleep, but he doesn't wake up. Pony's awake, though. Mikey can feel a patch of intent stillness from hir mattress in the corner, and knows that ze's watching him as he heads outside.

He walks the perimeter, ending up in front of the station, running his fingers over the keypad on one of the pumps. The stickers telling the numbers are leached of color by the punishing sun — soon they'll be almost illegible. Mikey tries to remember what the PIN on his BLI card was, but can't. He taps out Gerard's old phone number instead, the one he had from back east. He'll always have it memorized, he thinks irrelevantly, even though Gerard doesn't have that number anymore.

"Can't sleep?"

He jerks his hand away from the pump and turns around. It's just Show Pony, wrapped in a bathrobe, polka-dotted legs sticking out incongruously under the black silk and embroidered roses, walking barefoot across the dirty asphalt.

"Just thought someone should keep watch," Mikey says, pretending to scan the horizon. His voice sounds kind of nasal, and he wonders how messed up his face looks.

"Uh huh," Pony says.

They stand there in silence. Mikey's not sure if this is some weird game to see who can out-stoic the other or if it's a companionable silence or if they just don't know what to say. He's pretty sure he spots the point where it moves past companionable silence and into awkward, though.

Pony's looking at him funny, and it makes him feel superheated and kind of itchy, like there's solar fusion or something going on in his veins. That's something his brother would say, but unlike Gee, Mikey usually just keeps his random observations to himself. Instead he just says, "Thanks."

Pony lifts one corner of hir mouth in a questioning half-smile. Ze's sleepy, Mikey realizes. He's never known hir so quiet before. Usually ze's keeping up a constant slang-filled patter, teasing and bossing them around in equal measure, but right now hir mouth is still, and hir eyes are dark and gentle-looking. From this close he can see each of hir laugh lines, looking more pronounced from the dust and sweat and yesterday's eyeliner caked in the creases.

Mikey stares at hir, fascinated despite himself, until he realizes ze's waiting for him to say something else.

"For last night. Um," he clarifies quickly, realizing how that sounds and trying not to blush, "With the dracs, I mean." He mimes a punch and a kick, swinging his foot up and around in a half-hearted little arc.

"Think your boy Jet Star had something to do with that, too," ze says.

"Yeah," Mikey says. He knows that, but Pony's the one who's here right now. "Could you teach me?" he says.

Ze raises hir eyebrows. "You wanna be a karate kid, Kobra Kid? I thought you all didn't believe in violence."

Mikey's expression is carefully neutral. "My brother's an idealist. But we were in way over our heads last night, and I can see that life is like that out here. I just want to be... prepared."

"Yeah, I can show you a little something. Be good for you to learn some moves, a little self-defense, if you're planning on staying out here." Ze moves close and leans against the pump next to him, then reaches out to touch his cheek gently. "Maybe save that pretty face of yours next time."

Hir fingertips burn against his skin, and he's pretty sure he's blushing. He hopes it's still too dark for hir to tell, but the sun will be up soon. There's nothing to say, so he doesn't.

Ze drops hir hand. "You and Ray got something going?" ze asks, suddenly.

"What?" Mikey says, surprised. "No, nothing like that."

Pony just looks at him with one eyebrow raised, like there's some smartass comment on the tip of hir tongue, but whatever it is ze never says it. Instead ze just reaches out again, this time trailing a touch down his jaw from ear to chin.

Mikey can't fucking breathe. The hair on the nape of his neck is standing up like someone's just run an electric current through him, and it feels like a tremor is traveling out from the pit of his stomach, the solar fusion going fucking supernova on him.

"Hey, Mikeyfuckinway," Pony says, and hir voice is velvet and smoke wrapping around his name.

Mikey doesn't even think, he just leans forward, his body inches from Pony's. He thinks he can feel the heat radiating off of hir and glowing right through the thin fabric of the robe. He pauses, taking in the bold curve of hir lips, the intense way hir liquid eyes rove his face. He takes a breath and tilts his head a fraction to the side.

Ze doesn't balk at the invitation, and Mikey sighs, "Fuck, god, _yes_ ," anyhow as hir mouth closes on the skin below his ear. Pony presses hirself against him, tangling their legs together and shoving him up against the pump. Mikey feels the hard corners digging into his back and sucks in desert air and dust and it coats his mouth and Pony's tongue is doing something fucking _incredible_ to his earlobe, he didn't even think that was _possible_.

Ze slides hir thigh between his legs and _undulates_ , and he can feel hir body against every inch of him. He tips his forehead onto hir shoulder, rocking with the motion. Ze chuckles, and rolls hir hips again, thigh dragging against his hard-on, fuck.

The curve of hir shoulder is right there, bathrobe falling loosely to expose hir skin, and he leans over to bite it just because he can. Pony's skin is salty and kind of gritty and he's grabbing on, fitting his fingers to hir ribs and trying to climb hir like a fucking tree, sucking a line up along the stretch of hir neck, down hir jaw, and licking into hir mouth. Ze just pushes harder against him, sliding one hand around between Mikey and the pump to cradle his ass, giving hir leverage to really fucking move against him.

He actually comes in his pants, dizzy with the endorphin rush and pushing his face into Pony's sweaty hair. Ze's got a hand wedged between them working hirself until ze gets off, gasping a surprisingly loud, " _Fuuuck_ ," and digging hir teeth into his neck.

Mikey drops his head back against the pump, which makes a dull metallic sound. He finds himself giggling a little. Fuck, he feels good. _Ze_ feels good, panting against him and laughing in his ear. Mikey pulls back enough to bite hir earlobe. "Next time we should do that without pants," he says.

Pony cackles like a surprised hyena, then tries to stifle it, because everyone else is still asleep. It's fucking cute. "Baby," ze says, "I like you so much I might actually go for that."

* * *

"Did you find her?" Frank asks, hopefully, when Jamia comes back.

Jamia just takes off her helmet shakes her head, blue and blonde swinging across her jaw. "We left word with Keiko at the dup shop. She's aces at getting the word out. And LynZ took a solo job running some shit to Bat City, so she's gonna see if she can get any news while she's down there." There's something in her flat tone that makes Frank clamp his stupid jaw shut, even though he wants to whine about how bored he is.

Things are still hairy. He's heard a few outbreaks of shooting and people running round shouting, and he keeps smelling smoke like parts of the city are burning or something. News is running pretty thin — there's no server access for anyone, and even the radio waves are jammed, flooded with white static. All except fucking KBLI, which doesn't have a fucking thing to say about riots in the Springs, they just keep grinding out bullshit about the heat wave and playing the stupidest fucking excuse for music Frank has ever heard.

He goes next door to where Maria's dealing with a constant stream of visitors, people ducking in to tell her about hot spots or no-go zones, while she taps them into her laptop then prints off maps for Carmen to go out and distribute. He starts writing down notes for them when it gets busy, queuing up the updates until Maria has a quiet moment to catch up.

Jamia finds him there, coming in grease-stained and sweaty, and he opens his mouth to take a message before he realizes it's her.

She collapses into a spare chair. "They're looking for you," she says.

"Who?" Frank asks.

"The dracs. They know the Killjoys were here. Killjoys want you, dracs want the Killjoys, therefore the dracs want you." Which makes about as much sense as anything out here, fuck.

Jamia's been by her crew's quarters and brought back a couple of boxes of crap, which she dumps all over the floor of Frank's tent. There's nowhere to stand without tripping over shit, so she perches at the foot of Frank's cot and tinkers with a busted up radio late into the night. "Fucking Kitty," she mutters under her breath as she rummages for components, "couldn't you at least sort this shit so it makes any goddamn sense?" Frank's heart breaks a little at the way her shoulders slump, and he rolls over so he doesn't have to watch. The shitty lantern light and the constant static and scrape of her fiddling is giving him a headache.

Next day while she's out, he goes through the pile of crap and finds a string of LED lights, and decides what the hell. He strips off the AC plug and wires them up to a 12 volt battery, and strings them across the top of the tent. It makes a change from the lantern, anyway, and it's enough for Frank to feel like he's done _something_.

"Merry Christmas," he tells Jamia, grinning, when she comes back that evening. She forces a weak smile. She smells like formaldehyde, and Frank suspects she'd been down to the morgue. He doesn't ask, but he thinks if she'd found Kitty there she probably wouldn't have come back to the tent with a bowl of chili and a pack of cigarettes for him.

He thinks about Kitty and her stupid nicknames and belly laugh laid out on a slab, and he thinks he wouldn't fucking come back, either. Jamia doesn't say anything, just shoves the chili in his hands and spoons hers in her mouth, swallowing it like she can't even taste it.

Day three he says fuck it, waits until Jamia's gone and Maria and Carmen are busy, then throws down the radio he'd been tinkering with and slouches out of the tent to take a look around. He's going crazy stuck in there, and he's sick of feeling paranoid. Nobody knows his face, and he's not going to go far. He just has to get out and stretch his legs before he screams.

The tent city is a fucking mess. No, it's more than a fucking mess... it's was a mess when he moved into Maria's spare tent, which seems like forever ago, but now it's more crowded and more filthy and there's broken glass and a stink of burning plastic everywhere.

It's funny though... it looks like a refugee camp in a fucking war zone, but if he looks a little closer he can see it's a whole functioning society. People are running businesses and everything, even if they're looking wary and ready to shut shit down at the first sign of a drac patrol. He spots a couple of kids pulling a red cart with gallon bottles of water, selling them from tent to tent. Someone's frying noodles in a wok and people are eating them sitting on milk crates under a stretched out tarp. And that's not even counting the three or four people who ask him if he needs any pills.

He turns a corner and he's in the honest-to-god red light district, based on the signs over the entrances to the tents. He guesses it's the slow time of day since he doesn't get more than a few propositions, which he ignores. Most of the tents have their flaps shut, but one's open with a bright light inside and a generator humming out back. Then, over the hum, Frank hears the whine of a tattoo gun. He doesn't even think about it; he's inside the tent in about three seconds flat.

The tattooist looks up from the dia de los muertos design he's inking on someone's back, and motions Frank to wait. So he does what he always does, and stands around with his hands in his pockets looking at the flash on the walls or, in this case, taped to the tentpoles. The usual shit, hearts and skulls and dragons, and then — "Holy fuck," he blurts out, then claps his hand over his mouth, but the tattooist is ignoring him. Fuck. Right there on the tentpole, right under a snake coiled around a sword, is Frank's spider. _His_ fucking spider, lightning bolt and all.

And okay, fuck it. It's a message, he gets it. Message received.

He gets the spider tattoo on the back of his hand, right where he first drew it in sharpie in the alley behind BLI and showed it to Gerard. It'll be visible — no hiding it under his sleeves, even if he wanted to — but he figures that's the point. He's not going back. He' s always believed ink's for marking important occasions in his life, and this is a big one. So he sits there, giddy and giggling at the pain, until the guy wipes his hand off for the last time and puts down his tattoo gun, and Frank's got a spider tattoo. He's got a fucking spider tattooed into his _skin_ , where everyone can see it. Whoever these Killjoys are, why the fuck ever they dragged him out here to the desert, it's gotta be better than what he had back there in the city. It's _real_ out here. BLI can go fuck themselves.

* * *

 _"Nearly time to switch off," Ray says, checking his watch._

 _Mikey buries his face in the cool sweaty layer of dust coating Ray's neck. "Let's give them a few more minutes," he says, and Ray's laugh is high and sweet. Mikey can feel it bubbling up under the skin of Ray's throat._

 _"You think they're worn out?" Ray says with a leer._

 _"They're asleep," Max says behind them. Her voice is unusually quiet, but Mikey still startles. She's standing in the doorway with the glow of the lantern behind her._

 _"Hey, Max, what's up? Can't sleep?" Ray says, his voice gentle with concern. He's reaching his free arm out for her like he does it every day. Mikey envies him the ease of it, sometimes, but he doesn't begrudge it because Max is clinging to Ray so hard. She nods into his jacket, and her tiny shoulders are rigid with tension._

 _"It's okay, you can stay out here or go back in." Ray hugs her and tugs his jacket open to wrap it around her a little. She curls up against him and Ray says, gently, "We're about to go in. You want to come back to bed? Gerard and Frank can wake you up when Show Pony gets here, okay?" She shakes her head and wedges herself across Ray, her sharp knees jabbing against Mikey's rib._

 _Mikey's obscurely comforted, having her there, and he awkwardly puts his hand on her ankle, helping to brace her on Ray. He doesn't say that he doesn't want to go in, either. What he really wants is to take a few minutes longer here with Ray, with Max, in the cold, in the open, with the empty highway stretching away too quickly into the dark, toward the Springs._

 _Ray lifts his head to scan the horizon, squinting at a distant light blinking in staccato. It's been doing that all night, and it hasn't moved, so Mikey ignores it. Max doesn't say anything, just stares at the sky over his shoulder, glancing around everywhere but the south road, and there's something bleak in her expression that makes Mikey itch._

 _"Where the fuck is ze," he mutters under his breath._

 _"It's a long run. Ze'll be back soon." Ray says, grabs Mikey's hip and tugs him closer, too. Mikey feels hot in all the places they're touching, and freezing in all the places they're not. There's an emptiness concentrated on his bare side, an absence made manifest._

 _Max is probably remembering her mom, Mikey realizes with a jolt, that's what the look on her face is about, and he feels irrationally angry at Pony for not being there, for making them all worry. He takes Max's hand and squeezes, and after a moment she squeezes back._

 _Eventually, Ray gives them both a tiny shake. "You guys, stop worrying. It's going to be okay," he says, and he sounds so certain. "Come on, it's time to go in." They all take one last look down the highway, then they head back to the diner._

 _Max clings to Ray's hand until they get back to the diner door, then she shakes her head and scuffs off to throw rocks against the pumps. Ray and Mikey share a glance, then Ray shrugs and holds open the door, following Mikey in._

* * *

Jamia's standing outside Frank's tent when he gets back, and she punches him, hard, in the arm and calls him every name she can think of for leaving the tent when she told him not to. He just laughs and hugs her, trying to keep his bandaged hand clear of her flailing. "Hi honey, I'm home," he says.

"Motherfucker," she says, and kicks at his shins, but then she laughs too, and a huge grin cracks her face. "I'm going to fucking kill you, you know. But not right now. LynZ's back. We know where Kitty is — the dracs have her in a holding facility north of Springs. And LynZ can tell you how to find your Killjoys. You wanna come meet the rest of the crew?"

She leads him through a couple of miles back off the strip, to an old motel or resort or something, buildings clustered round a central courtyard and barbed wire strung across the gaps. "Welcome to the Queen of Hearts," she says.

Jamia leads him through a door spraypainted with GIRLS ONLY KEEP OUT. He blinks at that, but if she doesn't say anything then he's not going to mention it. The rest of the crew are there, and Jamia quickly does the honors, introducing him to LynZ and Alicia so they can get down to business.

LynZ's totally in charge, running the thing like a military operation. She lays out a map on the table, multiple pieces of paper taped together into one big sheet. "We're here," she says, pointing to an area of blue ballpoint cross-hatching. "The Springs. Out here," she points halfway across the map, in the middle of the desert, "That's where you'll find your Killjoys."

Jamia taps a finger on the BLI symbol roughly in between. "Drac station's here, that's where they're holding them. Carmen Lopez says they've tripled the squads in that zone."

LynZ frowns. "From what we saw the other night they've upgraded their stunners — shit was shiny. More presence, too — looks like that new asshole Korse is aiming to make an example of Springs for all the dust. Fuck knows what crawled up his ass and died there, but we're feeling the heat all the same." Frank starts at the name, trying to place it. He's been off FACT News for so long he's not sure what the fuck is going down in Battery City, but he does remember Gerard bitching about his boss, some dude named Korse. Scum rises to the top, Frank muses.

LynZ glances up at Alicia. "You hear anything from the medics?"

Alicia frowns, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear. "Burns, mostly, from close-range stuns. No fatalities that the nurses had heard, but the patrols are definitely pretty trigger-happy."

"I got some intel on my run to Bat City." LynZ says, and she sounds grim. "Word from the city queens is that Korse means to make the station the drac HQ in this zone. I got a floor plan, looks tight but not impossible. We've gotta hit hard and quick, before they process her and ship her off to Bat City. Before that fucker sets up camp."

"You think the three of us'll be enough?" Alicia asks.

"Four," Frank blurts, and everyone is surprised, including him. He swallows around the dryness in his throat and says "I'm coming, too," he says with brash confidence.

LynZ scoffs, and her smile is somehow both gentle and mocking. She opens her mouth and Frank is already bracing for it when Jamia steps in. "No, let him come. He's good with the wires, I vouch for him. We need a detonator, with Kitty gone." LynZ gives her a long look, then sweeps that sharp gaze over Frank consideringly.

"She vouches for you, huh, dustangel? You better know what a fucking honor that is. Right, you're in for the job, and we'll get you out on your way to your Killjoys. But you stay out of the way and do as you're told — this is a member of my fucking crew in a fucking cage, and I need your word you'll let the big girls run the show."

Frank nods, his palms sweating. Jesus, she's intense. "Got it," he says tersely, not wanting to get into it with her now.

Jamia nods. "Right. Frank and I'll go through Kitty's collection and work up some fuse detonators."

LynZ nods. "Two hours and we ride out."

They're on the road an hour and forty-five minutes later. Frank can feel the edge of the bomb casing digging into his hip as he clutches Jamia's waist and presses his helmet against her shoulderblades. She whips down the main drag after LynZ and Alicia's tail-lights, and the sunset is a thin blaze against the horizon to their left. Frank can barely breathe, his heart is hammering with excitement and fear, his mind racing through every possible scenario about how this raid will go, and he's a little dizzy and kind of tired by the time they pull up just below the crest of a hill.

Alicia takes one look at him and presses a rebreather into his hands, and he sucks on it gratefully, head swimming with the fresh oxygen. Jamia helps him set up and test the bombs, three for redundancy. The detonator feels like a toy in his hands.

They'll wait until well into the night shift, after the office staff in the station head for the barracks down the hill and the night guards have a chance to get bored and lax. LynZ is a pacer, and Frank learns real quick it's best to leave her to it.

Jamia sets up a tiny shelter tent and turns her lantern on low, protected by the dense canvas. Frank crawls in with her and she sits between his legs, leaning back against him.

She starts murmuring instructions to him for after the raid when he bolts north. She gives him a shitty photocopy of LynZ's map and a pocket radio, and tells him to tune in WKIL if he can find it. "When we're done with this, you get out of here. Don't wait. You see any crash queens on the road, tell them you're looking for Show Pony," she says. "You see anyone else, you get the fuck off the road. These Killjoys are driving a Trans Am, but don't go messing with anything on four wheels unless you know it's safe."

He just nods, burying his face in her hair and wrapping his arms around her. It's been a long time since he had someone he could do that with, so he just holds on and they stay together like that for a while.

He's starting to zone out when Jamia strokes the back of his hand, round the edge of the gauze. "When are you going to take this off?" she asks.

Frank opens his eyes. "Now," he says. It's been long enough. He sits up and unpeels the tape. "Don't touch it," he warns.

"What am I, fucking stupid?" Jamia asks, and peers at the tattoo in the faint light. "That's a fucking statement," she says after she's looked at it good and hard.

"Yeah," says Frank. "Yeah, it kind of fucking is."

"It's time," Alicia says, sticking her head under the tent and jerking her chin toward the station.

Jamia stands up, squeezing Frank's bare hand and pulling him up with her in one efficient move. She doesn't insult him by checking through the plan again with him — they've gone over it six times already — but she does press a fierce kiss into the crown of his head. "Fuck, Frankie, after we split, don't be an idiot out there in the dust. Send up a signal soon's you can. Skeleton Crew'll be looking out for you after this."

"Yeah," Frank whispers, throat a little tight. "Let's go find Kitty, Jamia. I got your back."

It takes a while for them to make their way down the hill. Frank follows Jamia, the charges in his pack dragging at his belt. He holds onto the fuses for good luck, twisting them against his fingers, and tries to be as good as Jamia is at hugging the shadows.

He tries to remember everything he ever saw in a ninja movie about walking against the wind or whatever shit, but he's pretty sure it's a miracle nobody catches him. Sneaking around was never his strong suit, but if first person shooters have taught him anything it's that he was born to blow shit up, so once he's done that he just has to make it to the station alive.

LynZ and Alicia skirt the perimeter fence to come at the building from the south, and Frank tries not to look for them too much. They're good at this, really good, and Frank has to trust that they can hold up their end of the operation.

He loses track of LynZ entirely after she squeezes under the barbed wire perimeter fence on the dark side of the building. He can't help but hold his breath at one point as a spotlight sweeps out from the station, slipping right over Alicia who has the presence of mind to flatten and freeze. Nothing happens.

Ahead of him, Jamia's cutting the fence, snipping the chain link quick and sure after disarming the perimeter sensors. Frank helps pull the fence aside, and she holds it while he climbs through, mindful of the volatile charges in his pack. He grabs her hand for a brief moment, and she squeezes his fingers back before moving forward. He sees her pull the door hack out of her pack, powering it up as they cover the last few yards to the door.

Her jaw is set as she concentrates on the machine in her hands. Frank pulls out the charges and primes one for her to take inside with her while he keeps guard. The hack flashes green and the door unlocks with a soft click, and she slips in with a smile of thanks, bomb cradled in the crook of her arm as she disappears into the station. Frank resists the urge to follow her in, knowing he's needed to keep watch out here and she's more than capable of handling a few surprised guards.

Frank sets his last and largest charge on the wall underneath the station's tiny window just around the corner from the main entrance. He retreats up the hill, ripping his jeans on the clipped edges of the fence as he slides through.

He fetches up behind a small scrub bush, clutching the detonator. His hand's aching a bit from the new ink. He flexes it slowly, imagining the spider skittering off his hand and down the hill, leaping onto the nearest guard and attaching itself to his face like the thing from _Alien_.

It's twenty minutes but feels like a hundred years before his comm crackles briefly. He squints at the complex until he sees a green light flash twice, pause, then flash again.

"Hope this fucker works," he says to himself, and grins with the thrill of it as he presses the button.

All three bombs go off, because fuck yeah, he's awesome at things that go boom. He hears three explosions but can only see the one that blows out a window in the control room, followed by a brief exchange of raygun fire. He can't help but admire the Skeleton Crew's guts, breaking into a D.R.A.C. station and laying down bombs without getting caught at it, fuck. He _hopes_ they didn't get caught, at least. He doesn't have any more bombs to break them out.

Now all the floodlights are on and there's a lot of commotion in the building. Guards come running up from the perimeter, sirens are going off, and Frank's smiling hugely with fear and adrenaline, his whole body tense, until he sees four — no, six — figures slip out the back door. He tracks them until they disappear around an outcropping, and there's the "we're clear" signal, green pulsing briefly over the hill. The off-duty dracs are running up the hill in their grey government-issue pajamas, rayguns bare and their fucking bootlaces probably undone.

Frank shoulders his pack, tucking the detonator in his pocket but keeping the radio out, just in case, and sets off running across the desert, heading north.

* * *

Doc's been bitching for days about scrambled signals and fried security circuits and how the fuck are they meant to loop in six new feeds from the zone cams if Pony's spending all hir time fucking that skinny piece of Killjoy ass. Eventually Pony asks him if he actually _wants_ that skinny piece of Killjoy ass and his friends killed, or is he just being an asshole?

"You know I'm an asshole, baby," he says.

"Yeah," says Pony, "So you don't have to show it."

The waves have been buzzing since the trouble at the Springs, and it's taking half their effort just to get WKIL out past the jammers without being traced. Max and Doc can handle that, though. Pony spends most of hir days on the road, handing off intel where ze can, picking up whatever's going that ze hasn't already got, raw data and maps and what passes for news reports. Never underestimate the bandwidth of a fanny pack full of flash drives, ze thinks. Can't stop the fucking signal.

Meantime, nobody's going anywhere fucking near the Springs if Pony has anything to say about it. A drac station halfway there got blown up the other night, and the highway's hopping with patrols. Ze manages to convince the Killjoys to stay close to base, sticking within a few miles of the gas station, and if there's some side-benefits to having the Kobra Kid nice and close, that's not the only reason ze's happy about it.

The Killjoys crash on the gas station floor more nights than not, and it's halfway to habit for Pony to meet Mikey outside, round the back away from the windows, while the rest are asleep.

Sometimes even when they're not. The look of him on his knees, with hir cock in his gorgeous fucking mouth, is one that sticks with Pony for days, and ze can't stop thinking about finding a fucking motel room or something so Mikey can fuck hir properly. Fuck, just anywhere with a bit of privacy and a mattress where they don't have to stand guard against zonehoppers and drac patrols all the fucking time.

If shit ever settles down, that is going to the top of hir priority list.

* * *

Sometime around dawn, more miles out from the drac station than he cares to think about, Frank reaches what the map says is Killjoys territory. The Skeleton Crew's information is pretty vague, and he's got about a hundred square miles of desert to comb.

He takes cover when it's hottest, to get some rest or at least keep his new ink out of the sun, and travels as far as he can at night. He crashes wherever he can find shelter, and keeps an eye on the road, looking for crash queens or anyone friendly-looking. He waves down a couple, and one motorqueen takes him a good way on the back of her bike, but although everyone's heard of Show Pony and the Killjoys, nobody knows where they are, or if they do, they're not letting on. Mostly he just walks until he can't walk any more.

A couple of days into it, his mouth's dry and his throat's sore, and he hopes it's just the dust, but he knows it's not. His fucking immune system.

He finds a deserted diner around dawn, and sends up a huge fucking thank you to whoever's up there looking out for him. There's shade, there's somewhere to lie down, there's even a fucking BLI vending machine out front.

He reaches for his wallet to buy some water from the machine, then realizes he's out of cash and he sure as fuck can't use his BLI card. Shit. Luckily there's a tap inside that actually works. He fills his bottle with slightly rusty water and drinks it, then fills it again. The pipes cough and give out right at the end, spurting a couple of nasty brown gushes that he hopes won't make him sick. Sicker.

He hunkers down in one of the booths, disemboweling his backpack and pulling out the last of Brian's stupid protein bars and the army jacket he wore out of the city. He puts the water bottle and the protein bar on the table and wraps himself in the jacket, drops his pack in the corner as a pillow, and lies down and tries to sleep. He dreams, though, and keeps waking up shivering and sweating. He staggers up to get more water, remembers there is none, and doubles over coughing.

Fuck. If he could just sleep for about a week. If someone would just bring him hot tea. If he just had a fucking bed and some blankets and some painkillers and maybe a TV he could tune into cartoons and leave playing 24/7 with the volume turned down low, just so there's a comforting background noise.

Instead he keeps hearing motors on the highway and dreams that there are people coming for him, BLI security or the motorgangs that LynZ warned him about or fucking zombies or something. He gets up the first couple of times he thinks he hears someone in the diner, but there's never anyone there. After a while he doesn't even do that. When the zombies come, they can fucking have him.

* * *

The Killjoys pull in at the diner out of habit, just to check whether there might be an overlooked stash of food or a few cartons of smokes in a storeroom or something. The place is in pretty good shape, doesn't look like it's been abandoned long, so it's not beyond the realm of possibility.

They all go in and spread out, Mikey and Max taking the kitchen, Ray and Gerard checking the dining room. Gerard and Ray have been pairing up more often, lately, since this _thing_ started with Mikey and Show Pony. Ray hasn't been looking too happy, and Gerard's not really sure what to think of that. Nobody's talking about it, though, so mostly Gerard just hopes it'll sort itself out eventually and keeps doing what needs doing.

It doesn't look like the diner's got much to offer except a bunch of old newspapers and dessicated ketchup bottles, until Gerard reaches the last booth and sees someone lying in it. He just about jumps out of his skin, and shouts "Fuck!", but whoever it is doesn't move. That's even worse. Fuck, there's a dead body here, he thinks, but then he realizes he can hear it breathing, labored rasping breaths.

He looks at Ray, who's standing well back with a horrified expression on his face, but whoever it is, they can't just leave them there. They're not well, they probably need help. He leans over the table and grabs hold of a shoulder, gives it a bit of a shake. "Hey," he says. "Hey, are you okay?" And then he gets a good look at the guy's face, pale and sick looking, dark hair sticking stringily to his forehead, but he'd know it anywhere.

Fuck. Fucking fuck.

"Frank?" he says. "Frank, Jesus, Frank! It's Frank," he tells Ray, who gives him a look like, "No shit, Sherlock."

"Frank. Frankie." He can't get in there, because the booth's too tight, so he winds up kind of sprawled across the table, trying to shake Frank awake and help him sit up, trying to stroke his hair out of his face, trying to make him understand. Frank rasps something, and tries to pull his coat around him. "It's me, Frank," Gerard says. "Fuck."

"Here, give him this," says Ray, handing over a bottle of water, and Gerard manages to get Frank upright enough to drink some of it. Frank gulps it down, and Gerard can see him starting to focus, starting to realize where he is, looking at Gerard and Ray like he's terrified of them. He's backed into the corner, clutching at the booth and the table with either hand.

"Shit, _Frank_ , what the fuck?" Gerard says, and Frank squints at him.

"Ge... Gerard? What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Gerard says.

Frank's mouth just hangs open at that and he just stares at Gerard, taking in his tshirt and hair and everything. "You're —" he says, then he starts coughing. It sounds like he's going to hack up a lung or something, and Gerard has to wait and then hand him the water again and wait for him to drink it. "It was you?" Frank says, when he can breathe again. "You're the _Killjoys_?"

"Yeah," says Gerard, because what else is there to say? All he can think is that he wants to grab Frank and hold on to him and not let go, but Frank's just sitting there staring at him in shock and he looks like he's about to freak out in a big way, so Gerard fights back the urge and makes himself keep his hands at his sides and stand back and give him room. He can't help himself from smiling like a freak, though. He thinks his face will probably split in two.

There's a long silence while Frank just stares at him big-eyed, then Frank visibly relaxes and swings his legs down to the floor and makes room, inviting Gerard to sit next to him. Gerard slides in, and Frank laughs rustily and reaches out for him, tangling his fingers in Gerard's hair and saying, "Fucking bleach job, man, what the fuck?" and coughing again. Then Gerard's got his arms around Frank and they're hugging like they haven't seen each other for months, which, oh hey, just happens to be true, and Frank's coughing against Gerard's shoulder, and Gerard realizes his face is wet and he's actually crying.

"Um," says Ray from somewhere behind Gerard. "Do you guys need a minute?"

Gerard buries his head in the crook of Frank's neck, and he thinks Ray goes away but that doesn't matter right now. "Fuck, Frankie," Gerard says, "I can't believe we found you. Don't you ever listen to the fucking radio? I've gone through the Misfits' and Black Flag's whole fucking catalogs begging for you or anyone who's seen you to make some fucking noise or fucking call in, I don't know."

"You could have fucking said where you _were_ ," Frank says shakily. "Or _who_ you were. You scared the fuck out of me. Spiders everywhere!"

"It was the bat signal," says Gerard.

"You should've done that thing, that Batman thing with the spotlight."

"I know! But you came, right? So it worked."

Frank laughs, and then he wheezes, and then he just settles against Gerard and clings there for a bit. "Fuck," he says. "I feel like shit. I haven't even left this fucking diner for probably a week. Fucking fever." He wipes his face irritably with the sleeve of his Army jacket. "What are you doing here anyway? You're not — you're not still working for that guy, are you? Korse?" His brow furrows at that, like he's actually worried, trying to figure it out.

Gerard chokes and starts laughing, clutching Frank's shoulder. "Fuck, man, _no_. Are you fucking delirious? He's the fucking enemy. BLI fucking fired you! So I kind of quit too. Everyone at that office was a fucking robot, and then you were suddenly gone and it was like, what the fuck am I doing here? What is my fucking spider? And it was my whole fucking life, you know?"

"Your spider?"

"My metaphorical spider. Like you said: face the thing you fear. My spider, my fear. Hey," he says, reaching over Frank's shoulder and twitching at the venetian blinds. "Look out the window."

Frank turns around awkwardly and cranes his neck, squinting out into the daylight at the diner parking lot until he spies the Trans Am, dusty and kind of beat up, with the midday sun beating down on it and the black and white design standing out clear on the hood. "Holy shit. Is that..." he gapes.

"Yeah, it's the Killjoys spider-mobile. It's kind of, um, a thing," Gerard says, smiling, and pulls a wadded up sheet of stickers out of his pocket and gives them to Frank. "It's really a thing, Frankie. Down in the city, there's a whole, like, movement. We're making art, changing people's lives. You have to see some of that shit. It's phenomenal."

Frank just looks at him, then lifts his hand, turning it so Gerard can see the back of it. Right where Frank had drawn his sharpie spider, the same design's tattooed into his skin, from wrist to knuckles. It looks new, still dark and a little raw. Gerard reaches out and touches it, feeling the faint texture of the ink under the skin, the heat of Frank's hand, the reality of his presence. He can't help himself grabbing Frank's hand with both his own and holding on so tight it probably hurts.

"You're here," he says. "I can't believe you're here."


	3. Chapter 3

Frank's head is still kind of spinning, and he can't tell how much of that is fever and how much is Gerard. The guy's intense, he's _insane_ , and Frank can't quite get his head around it all. He's pretty sure he'll wake up soon and it'll all be some kind of delirious dream, because who the fuck quits their job and starts an underground movement to find a guy who used to bum cigarettes off him? But if Gerard's really real, if this whole thing is for real, then fuck, that's kind of mind-blowing. He'd been kind of missing hanging with Gerard since he got fired, but apparently Gerard had taken it to a whole ‘nother level. It makes Frank's chest feel tight and painful just to think about it.

He only has a little while to think about it because pretty soon he feels like he's going to pass out, and he has to lie down again. "I just need to sleep," he says, and Gerard looks at him worriedly.

When he wakes up, Gerard's still there, and it turns out Frank's not hallucinating after all. He's slept for a good long while, and while he was out the Killjoys have set up camp right there in the diner. Ray, who is apparently the owner of the spider-mobile, and Mikey, who turns out to be Gerard's brother, go make some supply runs and by nightfall they've got some foam mattresses spread out on the floor and Frank's curled up on one, wrapped in a sleeping bag, with Gerard still holding his hand.

The only thing he needs — apart from some new fucking lungs — is a shower, but he's out of luck there. The next morning, though, someone's managed to fix the pipes and he manages a wash in the sink, with Gerard hovering nearby in case he falls over or something, and feels a bit less gross. It takes all the energy he has and he sleeps for the rest of the day, waking a few times to cough or to pull the sleeping bag closer around him even though he knows it's baking hot outside.

Sometimes Gerard is there when he wakes up, sometimes it's one of the other guys. Once it's that kid — Max, he thinks — sitting and watching him solemnly over the back of a diner chair. She gives him a cup of ramen, blessedly hot, and watches him to make sure he eats it. He's sucking down a clump of slimy noodle when she says, "Skeleton Crew's put the word out on the circuit. They got out clear, target acquired. They're looking for a wave on you."

Frank chokes a little on a noodle, and the coughing fit does nothing for his much abused esophagus. "Fuck," he croaks, "Yes, tell them I'm fine, God," he wheezes. "Shit, don't tell them I'm sick. Jamia will kick my ass." He sets the cup of soup aside and flops back on the pillows, weary. "Just say, Frankie Spider found his web." It's stupid, but he falls asleep before he can think of anything better.

He gets even more sick before he even starts to get better. The shit in his lungs just refuses to move, and the fever won't stop, and there are chunks of time there that he can't even remember, whole days of nothing but burning and aching and Gerard's hand on his back, trying to comfort him while he coughs himself inside out. He closes his eyes and when he opens them Mikey's there, having a tense conversation with Gerard. Frank doesn't really understand. Then Gerard's helping him sit up and holding a bottle of water for him and two black-and-white capsules in the other. "They're antibiotics, Frankie," Gerard says, "Can you swallow them?"

The first time he feels human again, he wakes up and it's half-light. He's thirsty, but his head is kind of clear, and he just lies there for a minute staring at the stamped metal walls and the piles of Killjoy crap that have collected on the counter-top while he was out. Then he rolls over, and sees Gerard at one of the tables, looking kind of rumpled with his bleached hair sticking out in weird directions.

Gerard looks up at the noise of Frank's movement, and comes over to him. "Hey, Frankie," he says. "How you doing?"

Frank manages a smile, and says, "Good. Thirsty." He reaches out for the water bottle Gerard's holding, and pushes himself up on one elbow to drink.

Gerard watches him kind of sideways as he drinks, rubbing at his nose with his hand. "Are you feeling better?" he asks.

"Yeah. I might live." Gerard mouth turns up in a crooked smile at that. "What were you working on?" Frank asks, because Gerard had been bent over something before he noticed Frank was awake, and he's got a smudge of ink on his nose. "Were you drawing?"

"Writing," says Gerard. "Just — just something I'm working on."

"Can I see?" says Frank.

"Soon." He looks shifty.

Frank thinks maybe that was the wrong thing to say, maybe Gerard doesn't like showing his work, so he changes the subject. "Hey, was I delirious, or were there canned peaches?"

"Yes!" Gerard says, jumping up. "Both, I mean, the delirium and the peaches." He grins crookedly. "I'll get you some."

They wind up sitting together on Frank's foam mat, leaning back against the wall, sharing peaches from a tin with a plastic fork. Frank manages about ten peach slices and then he's done, about to collapse again, like he can feel gravity sucking him down into sleep. "I need to lie down again," he yawns.

Gerard shifts awkwardly. "Okay," he says. "Um. Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm — uh," Frank says, "Could you... I mean, would you mind staying here?" Because fuck it, he's sick, and it just feels good to have someone next to him. He especially likes having Gerard next to him. He fucking missed the guy, with his crooked smile and his hair all over his eyes and the awkward way he talks. In fact Frank's starting to think that having Gerard there is the only good thing about being sick, just like he was the only good thing about working for BLI. "You could bring your notebook and write," Frank says, and then makes himself shut up because he can hear a needy little catch in his voice.

Gerard just nods and grabs his notebook from the table while Frank gets horizontal, and then Gerard drops down next to him and sits with his knee touching Frank's leg, and Frank falls asleep.

* * *

Mikey really needs to get a motorbike or something, Ray thinks. It's not that he minds giving Mikey rides back and forth between the diner and Doc and Pony's gas station. Okay, he does kind of mind a little bit, but it's not really any of his business, so he tries not to let it show. Whatever Mikey's got going on with Pony seems to be making him happy, and Ray's happy about that at least. Plus, it means Max has been spending heaps of time at the diner with Ray, and it turns out Max is completely awesome to hang out with.

Today when he goes to pick Mikey up, Max is jumping up and down about some new transmitter components she got hold of. She's set on building some kind of antenna setup for the diner, and tells Ray all about it while Mikey says goodbye to Pony. Ray tries not to watch, because that would be rude, but he kind of can't help it.

"It's directional, so we can point it this way and talk to Doc and the dracs over there won't be able hear it," Max says, and Ray nods. "Are you even listening?"

"Yeah," Ray says. "Come on, get in the car."

Max keeps up a steady monologue about range and frequencies and where to put the antenna so it's not visible from the road, all the way back to the diner, and Mikey stares out the window with a secret little almost-smile on his face and taps his hand rhythmically on the door.

Ray pulls up out front of the diner and Max is out of the car and racing inside like she's got springs in her legs, while Ray grabs the toolkit and the boxes of transmitter components from the trunk.

"Kids," Ray says, because wow, it's exhausting just to watch Max sometimes. He hands one of the boxes to Mikey to carry.

"Yeah," says Mikey, taking it from him and balancing it on his hip.

Max comes out again almost as fast as she went in, and she's giggling. "Shhh," she says, "They're _cuddling_."

"Cuddling?" says Ray weakly, thinking, oh God, what did the kid see?

"Yeah, you know, snuggling," Max says, then rolls her eyes. "They're not _sexing_. Geez. They're asleep!"

Mikey doesn't say anything, so Ray just shrugs and they tiptoe inside, shutting the door quietly behind them. Frank and Gerard are curled up on Frank's mattress, Gerard's arm wrapped protectively around Frank, sleeping bag and all.

Frank stirs, opens his eyes, and sees Ray. "Hi," he says.

"How are you feeling?" Ray says, keeping his voice low.

"Good," says Frank, with a little smile. "Better."

Gerard twitches and wakes up with a start, sitting up quickly and flailing 'til his hand finds his notebook. "I fell asleep," he says, stating the obvious.

Ray rolls his eyes and heads for the kitchen. He's starving. He can feel Mikey and Gerard having an epic eyebrow conversation behind his back as he leaves.

He heats up some vegmeals on the gas burner, tearing open four pouches into one pan then taking it back into the other room and putting it in the middle of the table where Frank and Gerard and Mikey and Max have all gathered. Frank's still got the sleeping bag around his legs and he's curled against Gerard, who has his arm over Frank's shoulder. Gerard looks up and smiles.

"I think it's chili," Ray says, "but don't hold me to it." He slides in beside Max, making her squeeze over. They eat straight from the pan. The diner's starting to feel like home, Ray thinks with a tiny jolt of surprise.

* * *

Gerard makes it his job to look after Frank. He's so sick, and it's all Gerard's fault, so Gerard sits with him and makes sure he gets lots of fluids and rubs his back when a coughing fit takes over and leaves him wheezing. For the first week after finding him, Gerard was scared out of his mind that Frank might actually _die_ , 'til Mikey and Ray made a run into the city to catch up with Pete and came back with antibiotics. Gerard's chest still feels tight at the sight of the BLI pill bottle, but they're _antibiotics_ , and Frank needs them, so he sucks it up and makes Frank take them even when he's really weak and delirious.

Frank gets better, slowly, and Gerard feels thankful and terrified at the same time. He wants Frank to stay, but he's starting to realize that might be one-sided. The thing is, this thing Gerard has for Frank, this whole life he's built up around it — his mission, his focus, the spider and the stickers and art bombs and the ragged band of kids following his lead — Frank doesn't share it. He didn't even know what was going on, didn't know Gerard was looking for him, didn't come out to the desert to come _to_ Gerard, he did it to get _away from_ BLI. And the only reason BLI were looking for him in the first place was because Gerard was looking for him.

In short, Gerard fucked up and Frank's lost everything for a cause he didn't even sign up for, and Gerard doesn't have a clue what to do about it.

It doesn't help that Frank's like another person, almost, from the one Gerard used to hang out with. All this time, Gerard's been imagining him like he was at BLI, in his mostly-regulation work clothes, hair combed back all business-appropriate, greeting Gerard in the smokers' alley with a guarded half-smile. But desert-Frank is completely different, his hair hanging loose, wearing ratty jeans with his knees sticking out, and a t-shirt that's seen better days and shows the tattoos all down his arms, which Gerard just can't stop staring at. He looks almost as if he belongs out here, and as he gets healthier he's full of energy and his smile is open and brilliant.

A couple of weeks pass, and Gerard waits for Frank to say he's moving on, but Frank just seems to settle in. He gets friendly with Ray and Mikey and Max and Pony, and makes himself comfortable in the corner where he sleeps, building up a stash of clothes and personal belongings and finding a pillow that suits him better. Gerard still sleeps next to him. He can't bring himself to stop, even though Frank's not sick any more, and Frank seems to like it, pulling Gerard's arm around him so he can be the little spoon. Gerard tries not to be creepy about it, even if it means he has to get up quickly in the morning before he can accidentally press his morning boner against Frank's leg or something. He goes to the kitchen and makes coffee instead, reminding himself that just because he nursed Frank back to health doesn't mean Frank owes him anything. Actually, it's the other way round — Gerard's pretty sure it would be creepy and kind of predatory for him to make a move on someone who relied on him for food and shelter and medicine.

It would just be easier if Frank wasn't always touching him. He likes coming up behind Gerard and jumping on him to surprise him, clambering over him in the back seat of Ray's car, and snuggling up against him while they're all crowded around Mikey's netbook watching movies at night. It's frustrating, but Gerard is practicing stoicism. Practicing being the operative word. He's not very good at it.

Which is why he's kind of lost for words when Frank turns to him late one night, shifting under the unzipped sleeping back they share and facing him in the dark, and says, "Hey, I'm going to kiss you now, okay?"

"Um," says Gerard, grabbing the sleeping bag tight in his hands as Frank's nose bumps against his cheek in the dark. His voice squeaks as he says, "What?"

"You heard me."

Gerard can feel Frank's breath, can almost taste him, but he makes himself say, "Are you sure? You don't have to —"

"What? Yeah, I'm sure." Frank's laughing at him, and then Frank's finally finds Gerard's mouth and Frank's actually kissing him, his lips warm and dry. Gerard feels like he's frozen, like he doesn't even know what to do. "Hey," says Frank, his lips still brushing against Gerard's as he speaks, "Hey, okay? You kind of seemed like you wanted to, but you weren't going to do anything, so I figured —"

"Yes, okay," Gerard hears himself saying breathlessly, cutting Frank off mid-sentence. "Yes, god, _Frank_." And then Frank's tongue's in his mouth and Gerard's hand is cupped around the back of Frank's head, clinging to him, and Frank's hand is worming its way inside Gerard's t-shirt, pressing hotly against Gerard's skin, and Gerard can tell that Frank's grinning while he's kissing, his lips all stretched and their teeth banging together, and Gerard can't help grinning too. Of _course_ he wanted this. He just didn't know Frank wanted it too.

Frank pulls back for a moment and wriggles out of his shirt, then gets his hands under Gerard's and pulls it up over his head. Then he presses himself against Gerard again and oh, wow, skin. Gerard's lost for a moment in the novelty of it, the feel of Frank's chest against his, Frank's hands all over his back and his shoulders and his sides. Then Frank presses his palm against the small of Gerard's back and pushes against him and Gerard feels like there are sparks going off behind his eyelids as Frank's cock rubs against his through the fabric of their pants. Gerard stifles a moan, burying his face against Frank's neck.

"I don't think they can hear us," Frank whispers, then shifts down to lick Gerard's collarbone, and then his nipple, and Gerard's not sure whether Frank's right about that — Mikey and Ray and Max are camped out in the office on the other side of the diner and he doesn't think they shut the door — but he's not about to argue. God, Frank's using his teeth, and Gerard just can't help making noise, even if he tries to choke it back.

"Frank," he gasps, "Frank, Frank, Frank."

"What?" Frank says.

Gerard tries to get his thoughts to line up in coherent order, but the most he can manage is to lift Frank's face up, his fingertips under Frank's jaw, and say, "Don't —"

"I swear," says Frank conversationally, and the three brain cells Gerard has functioning are pretty impressed by Frank's coherence as he continues, "If you start making excuses right now... I know you've been trying to talk yourself out of this. You don't need to. You really fucking don't need to."

"Uh huh," says Gerard, because he can't think of anything else to say, and Frank's mouth is still doing things that make it hard to make words.

"Also, just so you know," Frank says, taking a break from tracing his tongue over Gerard's belly, "I really want to suck your dick right now."

Gerard groans. "Jesus, Frank, you —"

"Shut up," Frank says fondly, and reaches up and covers Gerard's mouth with his hand, which Gerard takes as an invitation to kiss it, and then, fuck, he's glad it's there, because Frank's pushing Gerard's pajama pants down and wrapping his hand around Gerard's cock and then he's ducking his head to run his tongue around the head of it, and Gerard can't do anything but moan into Frank's hand and try to resist moving his hips.

Frank's mouth is hot and wet and it's _Frank_ , and Gerard's brain just goes offline, spinning in little circles of _motherfucking yes_ and flashes of technicolor and over it all the taunting, insistent tune that's been hanging on the edge of his consciousness for days. He squeezes his eyes shut but it doesn't stop, and Frank doesn't stop, he just uses his hand to stroke Gerard and swallows him deeper, and then Gerard's coming so hard he sees stars.

He hadn't even managed to give Frank any warning, but Frank doesn't seem to care, he just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then clambers up to cling to Gerard and kiss him and rub himself against Gerard's thigh until Gerard gets it together to give him a hand, and then Frank's coming too, gasping, "Fuck!" and grabbing Gerard so hard with his hands that Gerard thinks he might have bruises in the morning.

After, they lie there all tangled up and sticky, with the sleeping bag pushed down around their legs, and Frank snores against Gerard's shoulder, the little snorting noises making a strange counterpoint to the song that's been going round and round in Gerard's head since Frank went down on him. What the fuck, he must be the only person in the world to get a _sex earworm_. He'd reach for his notebook, but Frank's on his arm, so he just stays where he is. He can do something about it tomorrow.

* * *

"So those two are finally fucking. What took them so long? Sparks there like a carburetor," Show Pony says, circling and watching for an opening.

Mikey ignores the comment, feints and tries for a wild high kick, which Pony blocks easily.

Ze smirks. "Walked in on them in the back storage room couple days back. Frank sure is limber."

"I don't need to hear details," Mikey grunts, frowning at the new powerglove Pony picked up for him, which has begun to emit a high-pitched whine.

"Thought you'd be happy about it," Pony says, whipping in under Mikey's guard and delivering a light tap to his rib. "Hit. You'd be down in a real fight."

Mikey's not really paying attention. The glove gives a high-pitched little whine as he presses buttons, then zaps a spark at him. "Motherfucker," he says, shaking his wrist. "Ow."

"Let me see," Pony says. "Looks like the zonerunner I got this off traded me a piece of dreck. Guess I should have tested it."

Mikey sighs as he unbuckles the powerglove and flexes his fingers. It's hot and they're sweaty and now that Pony's getting a good look at Mikey's flush, ze thinks they've been pushing a little too hard at practice today. Ze retrieves their bottle of water and motions Mikey over to the dubious shade of the rocky overhang that marks their practice space.

"Fucking glove. This was easier when it was a video game," Mikey bitches, flopping onto the dust without even bothering to clear a space first.

"Should get Ray to take a look at it," Pony says, settling next to him and puts an arm around him despite the heat, drawing comforting little circles on the nape of his neck.

Mikey doesn't say anything else for a little bit, just glowers and sucks down some water. Pony's learned by now it's better not to push him because that's a sure way to make him shut up forever. Ze waits, smiling a little, watching the subtle play of muscles in Mikey's neck and jaw, fascinated. Patience is about finding things to amuse you while you're waiting.

"He doesn't really know this guy," Mikey says at last, and Pony realizes he's answering hir earlier question about Gerard and Frank. "I mean, I like Frank. But he's just some guy, and he's not..." he trails off, and Pony thinks he was probably going to say, not as committed as Gerard. Mikey shrugs. "Gee can be really intense sometimes. And he doesn't recover well. I've seen it happen before."

"Guerilla art bombing to find one dustangel you used to bum a smoke with does count as kind of obsessed," Pony muses.

"Right?" Mikey sighs.

"They're big boys. You let him live, you let him love, you be there if all goes nuclear. That's it. He does the same for you, you know," ze murmurs into his greasy hair. "You ready to go back? Sun's baking."

They head back to the diner, sweating and trudging and brushing shoulders and not saying much. Mikey's tired from all the sparring and still preoccupied about his brother's incipient romance, and Pony is used to long stretches of silence with him at this point. It's gotten companionable.

When they get back to the diner they find Max and Ray having a spectacular row in front of the Trans Am.

"It's _my car_!" Ray yells, outraged.

"You need it! It's here! I'm giving it to you no charge! The hell is your problem anyhow?!" Max hollers at him, waving a dubious piece of equipment around wildly.

"You are not touching my radio with that thing. What is that, part of the stereo and a piece of the toaster? No way. It'll fry and we'll all blow up. In _my car_ ," Ray insists, his voice going even higher.

"It's not the toaster, it's the display from the the dishwasher," she says earnestly, holding the piece up like an offering.

Pony strides up and takes the thing from her, eyeing it with growing excitement as ze presses the buttons on the front plate. "Is this scanning _and_ jamming? Gearbaby, the Blight won't know what hit 'em. How'd you wrestle this?"

She shoots a smug look at Ray. "Just modded Gerard's old phone to pick up the trans from the zone surveillance cams, patched it through one of those anti-crypto circuits, and pushed it out to the display. It's pretty good res, look! And if we hook it into the Trans Am, it'll jam anything they've got pointed at us, too."

"Jet Star, you want this shiny thing in your bird yesterday," Pony says, shoving it into Ray's hands and smiling broadly at him.

Ray looks mollified. "Hey, does that LCD screen really work?" he says, actually looking at the thing. Mikey comes up and leans against Pony, reaching out and touching the wires coming out the end of the object.

Max punches Ray in the thigh. "Give it here. You don't know what you're doing, _I'm_ doing it." She grabs her patchjob away from him and leaps into the car, squealing. She's quicker than Ray, and has the doors locked and is making obnoxious faces of triumph out the window at him while he pulls uselessly on the handle and smacks at the glass.

Ray moans in defeat and turns back to Show Pony and Mikey.

"Hey, Ray," Mikey says, changing the topic, "this glove keeps shorting out. Can you take a look?" He holds the powerglove out to Ray, and Pony notices Ray pull away a little too smoothly when Mikey's fingers brush his. Ray has an awkward little smile on, and he takes a tiny step backwards.

Pony sighs. It's like a huge neon fucking sign, and Mikey is either completely oblivious or pretending to be. This shit is starting to get old. For two guys who supposedly didn't have anything going on, being around them is way too much like hanging out in a minefield. Times like this, ze's tempted to lock them both in a room together and make them sort it out.

Ray whips out his Leatherman tool and unscrews the glove's backplate, poking around carefully in the wires inside. "Yeah," he says, "looks like this connection is corroded, see? I can totally re-solder this." He holds the glove out and Pony peers obligingly at the tangle of wires. There's bit of rust and melted wire casing in there for sure. Ze's not sure how ze missed that one, but it's a relief to know it's fixable.

"Thanks, baby," Pony says, and then thinks _fuck it_ and leans in to kiss Ray on the lips. It feels comfortable, yet kind of thrilling, new. Ray's lips are somehow both softer and drier than Mikey's. Ray kisses hir back for a surprising moment before freezing and stammering "Um!" wide-eyed and staring at Mikey.

Mikey's face is blank but ze can see in the angle of his jaw he's taken aback. They both look at Pony for an awkward moment, then Mikey looks back at Ray. "Huh," he says thoughtfully, and shrugs, then steps up next to Pony and mashes his lips into Ray's, too. Pony can see him slipping Ray a tiny bit of tongue, and tries not to smirk. Looks like that's been overdue for a long time. Ray flails his arm out and clutches Pony's shirt at the shoulder, holding on for dear life while he kisses Mikey back.

Max rolls down the window a crack to taunt, "Get a room! You guys're even grosser than the other two! Ugh." They all burst out giggling, and Pony twines hir fingers through each of theirs while Mikey flips Max off, and hir cheeks hurt from smiling so goddamn much.

* * *

 _Gerard flails awake, batting at the hand that's shaking his shoulder. It takes him a moment to realize it's just Mikey. "Whuh?" he says, rubbing his eyes._

 _"Hey, Gee," Mikey whispers, "it's 2am."_

 _"Ugh, okay," Gerard says, and rolls over to Frank, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close for a minute, then murmuring, "Frank," in his ear._

 _"Mmph?"_

 _"Time to get up. It's our watch."_

 _Frank sits up, the sleeping bag falling away. His shirt is rucked up, and in the light of the battery-powered lantern, Gerard can see the drawings he made on Frank's skin. Gerard's mouth feels dry at the memory._

 _Frank's slow to wake, grumbling and rubbing his eyes, but Gerard hits consciousness pretty quickly, his stomach feeling like butterflies, even before Mikey hands each of them a mug of coffee. "All quiet?" Gerard asks. Mikey nods. "Pony?"_

 _"Not back yet," Mikey says, his face carefully blank._

 _Mikey stands awkwardly, all elbows, as Gerard hugs him, then quickly hugs back before letting Gerard go and reaching out to pat his hair. "Bed head," he says._

 _"You gonna get some sleep?" Gerard asks. Mikey looks toward the office door and shrugs. Ray's there. One way or another, Ray'll look out for Mikey. Gerard gives Mikey another squeeze and says, "Okay."_

 _Frank's waiting for him outside, coffee mug steaming in his hands. Max is there too, dark circles under her eyes but she insists she's not tired, so Frank shares his mug with her. The road's dark and empty. They all sit down on the curb and wait._

* * *

In the desert, Gerard's a morning person. It's something about the desert light. As soon as the sun rises, he finds himself awake and drawn out into the day. Waking wrapped around Frank, skin to skin, makes it harder to pull himself out of bed, but Frank's a heavy sleeper and Gerard knows he won't be up for a while yet. He presses a kiss to Frank's ear and untangles himself from the sleeping bag, then pulls on his clothes and slips out the back door of the diner with a travel mug of coffee and a notebook and heads north. There's a low hill just behind the scatter of empty houses that make up the town, and he likes to sit there in the mornings and watch the desert.

It's kind of weird how still it is. He would have thought there'd be lizards or birds or something, but there's nothing. Not that he's a wildlife expert. He doesn't know what sort of birds you'd get out here. Vultures? Road runners? He's not even sure if road runners are real, but he amuses himself for a minute imagining the little purple guy from his childhood overtaking a convoy of crash queens with a "meep meep" sound, Wile E. Coyote close behind.

He tried to explain it to Mikey, once, how he keeps expecting to see road runners or road warriors or aliens or desperadoes or something out of the corner of his eye. It's like the desert's a painted background and he's seeing it through a layer of celluloid with characters moving on top. It's why he comes out here in the mornings, while the others are still asleep, and draws: endless highway and dusty scrub and yucca plants and empty boarded-up ghost-towns and post-apocalyptic action heroes.

This morning, though, he needs to write. He woke with the tail end of a dream echoing in his head, and he needs to get it down before it disappears. He thinks it's probably part of the project he's been feeling bubbling under his skin since he left the city. He's not a hundred percent sure what that is yet, but he can feel it all starting to come together, all the ideas and the sketches he's been making starting to coalesce into something that might actually work. Maybe. Ugh.

It's strange, really. It started as a comic, cartoon characters in the desert, but now other things are starting to attach themselves to it. He's been pouring out words lately, some of them stories and some of them lyrics, he thinks. He's never written songs before, but lately his brain just seems to be working that way, verbal as well as visual, and he's been taunted by half-heard earworms, rhythms and tunes that would probably be actual music if he knew how to express them. He scrawls them through his sketchbook as best he can, mixing them up with the drawings, words and images all jumbled together on the page.

The sun's high, beating down on his bare arms, when he looks up to see Frank coming out through the dust to join him. He sits at Gerard's side and hands him a water bottle and a candy bar.

"What time is it?" Gerard says.

Frank grins around a mouthful of chocolate. "Lunchtime."

Gerard hadn't even noticed the time passing, but he's definitely thirsty and, yeah, now he thinks about it, he could eat. "Thanks," he says. "I guess I didn't notice." He downs half the bottle of water all at once.

Frank leans against Gerard's shoulder. "How's it going?" he asks, cautiously, indicating the sketchbook.

"Good. I... can I show you something?"

Frank nods excitedly. "Show me!" he says, and Gerard realizes Frank's been dying to see, and Gerard hasn't shown him anything yet.

"I wasn't sure if you... well, you'll see," Gerard says, turning to a picture he'd started weeks ago, then finished yesterday. It's a pencil sketch of the four of them, Gerard and Mikey and Ray and Frank, as action heroes. They're posed like the cover of a comic book, with the words "The Killjoys" arcing over their heads. Ray — Jet Star — has his arms folded in front of his chest, and Mikey/Kobra Kid's striking a kung fu pose. Gerard and Frank are in front, and Frank's hand is raised in a fist, spider on display.

"It's not finished," Gerard says. "I mean, I'm still working on the whole thing, and I don't really know where it's going, but..."

"Oh, wow," Frank cuts in, and when Gerard looks at him he's wide-eyed.

"You... you like it?"

"Fuck yes! This is so fucking cool," Frank says, tracing the lines on the paper with his fingertip. "You made me a Killjoy. Hey, what's your codename, anyway? I know Kobra Kid and Jet Star."

"Oh," Gerard says, nonplussed. "Party Poison. It's, I mean, that's what Pony came up with."

"What's mine, then? I need a Killjoys name too."

"You —" Gerard stops and stares at him. "Yeah," he says, and kisses him, because he's _there_ , and because, inexplicably, he seems to want to be part of this whole crazy thing.

"Don't distract me," Frank says. "What's my name?"

"Anything you want," Gerard says, and kisses him again, and this time Frank actually shuts up for a minute or so and kisses him back, nipping at Gerard's lip, and hey, who's distracting who now?

"Frankenstein," Frank says indistinctly, his tongue halfway in Gerard's mouth.

"What?"

He pulls back enough to say, "I want to be Frankenstein."

"What, no!" Gerard says. "You can't be Frankenstein. It's too much like your real name."

"I can," Frank says, poking him in the ribs, and Gerard goes down giggling in the dust. "You said I could have anything I wanted."

"Anything except Frankenstein! Ow, no tickling!"

Only Frank's not really tickling, he's just crawled on top of Gerard and put his hands up Gerard's shirt. He bites Gerard's nipple through the cloth then pushes his shirt up and does it again against the bare skin. "Anything?" he asks.

"Mmhmm," Gerard says. He's kind of forgotten what the question was, so he just wraps his fingers in Frank's hair and holds him there. Frank takes the hint and keeps using his teeth, and Gerard's pretty sure he never even knew he was into that before, but now he really, really is. His hard-on is pressing against Frank's stomach and he's pretty sure he can feel Frank's jabbing him in the thigh.

Frank lifts his mouth away from Gerard's nipple and looks up at him. His lips are kind of red, which is all kinds of hot, and Gerard can feel the wetness from Frank's mouth evaporating off his skin, making it prickle.

"Fangool," Frank says.

"What?" Gerard has no idea what that has to do with anything.

"Fun. Ghoul." Frank says each word separately this time. "If I can't be Frankenstein I want to be Fun Ghoul. You said anything."

"Yeah, OK, whatever," Gerard says, because he's not really in a position to critique Frank's choice of codename right now. "Do that again?"

Frank just grins wickedly. "Awesome," he says, and presses his hard-on against Gerard, unmistakably. "You want me to do that again right here, or do you wanna go back inside?"

"Inside!" Gerard squeaks, then cracks up laughing. "Fuck, help me up."

He's covered in dust and Frank keeps crowing, "Call me Fun Ghoul," all the way back to the diner. It's a pretty stupid name, but Gerard can't really bring himself to get worked up about it under the circumstances. He's too busy wondering where the others are, whether he and Frank will have privacy, whether maybe he'll have to drag Frank into the bathroom and press him up against the door to stop anyone else from coming in.

What Gerard doesn't expect, when they come in through the kitchen, is to find Mikey and Pony and _Ray_ all making out right inside the diner's main door. He pulls up short and Frank runs into him from behind. The three of them are pressed up tight against each other and Ray and Mikey are kissing like they really mean it and Pony's draped over Mikey's back, chewing on his neck. Gerard just gapes. They don't even notice that Gerard and Frank are there, until Frank giggles and they all break apart and look around.

"Um, hi?" Gerard says, weakly.

"Hi there," says Pony with a smirk, as Mikey wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"This is new," Gerard says, waving his hand at them in a way that he hopes indicates the whole general situation. "Wait, this _is_ new isn't it?"

"Brand shiny, sweetheart," says Pony. Gerard's strangely relieved. He didn't think he was _that_ oblivious.

Frank just laughs and swings round the counter to punch Ray in the arm and jump up and mess with his hair. "Rock on," he says. "Ray, you dog."

Mikey's staring big-eyed in Gerard's direction, like he's a bit freaked out. Well, Gerard's a bit freaked out too, so that makes two of them. Then Pony nudges Mikey until he regains motor control and joins Gerard, ducking back out through the kitchen.

"What the fuck?" Gerard says when they're clear of the others. "I mean, it's cool, I just... I didn't know you were, um."

Mikey shrugs. "It just sort of happened," he says. "I think it's good."

There's a long awkward silence, until Gerard says, "Wow, you and Ray... I just."

"And Pony."

"You and Ray and Pony," Gerard corrects himself, then thinks about it for a minute. "How's that even... no, wait, I don't need to know." He twists a strand of hair between two fingers. "You'll be careful, right?"

Mikey bumps him with his elbow, a tiny smile playing at his lips. "You be careful," he says.

"No, _you_ be careful. Jesus, Mikey." Gerard grins at him, then hugs him hard.

* * *

This is definitely not what Ray was expecting. Not that he was really expecting anything. He had hopes, but not expectations, and then it looked like even his hopes probably weren't going to pan out, so he put them aside. Turns out he'd been wrong about that. Really, amazingly wrong.

It doesn't take Mikey and Pony long to show him how wrong he is. That first night, they pull him into the manager's office, lock the door, and take up where they'd left off when Gerard and Frank walked in on them. They push the mattresses together and Ray finds himself sprawled across them, Mikey on one side and Pony on the other, their hands and mouths all over him. Next morning he has hickeys on his neck and Frank laughs at him, and Ray just laughs back.

Pony's amazing, pragmatic and teasing and tenacious. Without hir, Ray thinks, this probably wouldn't be happening at all. And Mikey's quietly determined in his own way, stubborn as a rock, never letting Ray back out or make excuses. So it's all working out, somehow, and all the sharp corners and rough edges start to get worn off and pretty soon it feels normal, like it was always meant to be this way.

In between the time with Mikey and Pony, the regular shitswaps, and the occasional runs into the Springs or Battery City now that the drac patrols have eased off a little, Ray mostly spends his time at the diner pulling things apart and putting them back together, either with Max or alone. Gerard is pretty much always either out in the desert all morning or in the diner, sitting in the booth with the best light, legs wedged against the table, alternating between staring off into space over his sketchpad or chewing on three pencils and scribbling vigorously.

Today Mikey and Pony have gone back to Doc's lair with Max, and Ray's working on Mikey's netbook, trying to figure out what's wrong with the video connector. It looks like there are loose cables in the hinge, so Ray starts to pull it apart, putting the tiny screws in a diner coffee mug so he doesn't lose them.

He kind of wishes Max were here with her quick bursts of mechanical inspiration, but he's pretty excited they'll have the diner's cramped little office to themselves tonight. Max had pouted a little until Ray promised she could work on the Trans Am with him later and Mikey had solemnly told her they were just going to be kissing and stuff all night, and he just knew how much she hated when they did that. Pony had just smiled and blew obnoxiously on Max's yellow whistle until Max squealed and clapped her hands over her ears and yelled "Okay! Okay! Fine! But I want to listen to Mad Gear and Missile Kid the whole way back, _and_ I call the sunroof!"

Frank's just kind of kicking his heels, wandering around and looking at all the crap they've collected, mostly keeping out of Ray's way. At one point he tries to sit next to Gerard while he works but Gerard quickly banishes him from the booth after Frank jostles him in an ill-advised attempt to cuddle.

"Hey Ray," Frank says, pausing by the pile of stuff that's mostly Ray's, "Do you mind if I play your guitar?"

Ray looks up from the mess of wires and circuitry. "Do you know how?" he asks.

Frank shrugs, scuffing his boots on the diner's linoleum. "It's okay if you don't want me to," he says, and it's obvious he figures Ray's not going to let him. Ray's not that guy though. He loves his guitar, but he's not jealous of it. He doesn't mind other people touching.

"You can play it," Ray tells him. "Sure. Just don't break it."

"Oh! Oh, really? Awesome!" Frank bounces on his toes then grabs the guitar and slings the strap over his shoulder. He pings the harmonics, tuning deftly, and Ray watches out of one corner of his eye as Frank plays a couple of chords, trickles through some scales, then launches into "Astro Zombies". He stumbles a couple of times, sorting out the chord progressions, then bites his lip and starts back over again. He rolls from the Misfits right into the riff on Mad Gear's latest single, really getting into it and headbanging along. Ray suppresses a smile.

Frank growls the lyrics under his breath, tunelessly but what he lacks in pitch he makes up for in passion. He shreds the last power chord with a flourish, and Ray looks up at him, grinning. "You're not bad," he says. "I mean, you can really tear, man. What else do you know?"

"Some punk stuff, hardcore, mostly. I can probably drag up some rock tunes and a little blues if I think about it. Used to play basements with some friends before I moved to Battery City for the BLI job."

Ray puts down his soldering iron. "Why'd you stop?"

Frank shrugs. "Fucking BLI, man. I didn't know anybody for a while, and then even after I'd met Bob I just... avoided the scene. Went out a few times but man, there is nothing worse than passing out in the clothes you got pissed in, knowing you're going to have to tie that fucking tie the next morning and fake it, you know?"

Frank strums something discordant and angry. Ray looks up and sees that Gerard is standing right there staring at them, eyes big, one hand twisting distractedly in his hair. Ray can't tell how long he's been watching them like that.

"Gee," Frank says with a grin, and hands the guitar off to Ray, bounding to his feet. He kisses Gerard and then pulls away and says, "What's wrong?"

"Where's Mikey?" Gerard says.

"Doctor D's, I think, with Show Pony. They should be back tonight, right?" Frank says, glancing at Ray for confirmation.

Ray frowns and nods, then says "Hey, is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," Gerard says, and then laughs a little hysterically. "We need to — I think we need to talk. All of us. Shit." He rubs at his face with his hands then pushes his hair back. "It's okay, it's good, I promise. I just... I need to get Mikey back here."

He goes into the other room and Ray can hear him sending out a call on the waves for Kobra Kid. Ray looks at Frank and raises his eyebrows in question, but Frank just shrugs. "I don't fucking know," he says. "Fuck."

Gerard won't say anything until Mikey gets back, so it's all awkward silences while they wait. Ray finishes the netbook and closes it up, and Gerard paces, and Frank stands against the counter with his arms crossed in front of him like he's not too happy that Gerard's so antsy about something and won't tell him what it is.

Finally, _finally_ , they hear the car roll in and then Mikey's coming in jangling the keys, giving Gerard one of those wordless Way-brothers looks, and Gerard says "Okay, sit down, I have to show you something."

He goes to the corner that's his and Frank's, and pulls out a flat package from behind a storage cabinet, two sheets of cardboard duct taped together round the edges with a big spider stenciled on the outside. He brings it over to the booth where they're sitting and holds it awkwardly in front of himself, then looks at Frank.

"I didn't want to say anything because I wasn't sure, and you're — this is all new for you, and you were sick at first, and I didn't want to pressure you into anything. I thought maybe eventually — but it was just an idea I had, and I hadn't figured it all out yet." He looks around at all of them, but they're just waiting for him to start making sense, so nobody says anything.

"I didn't know you could play guitar," he says to Frank, and there's a sort of wondering tone in his voice. Frank opens his mouth like he might demur, but Ray gets a weird feeling about the look on Gerard's face and puts a hand on Frank's arm to stop him. Gerard never acted that way about Ray's guitar playing, and Ray's better at it, though Frank is good, too. That's not boasting, that's just fact. But Ray doesn't know what Frank playing guitar's got to do with anything at all.

Then Gerard starts pulling sheets of paper out from between the cardboard and spreading them on the table and words come tumbling out of his mouth. "I — I didn't want to hide this from you, it wasn't like that, I swear. I just, I guess I wanted it to be finished first, and then I thought it was kind of stupid and we wouldn't be able to do it anyway, so I just kind of put it aside. But I keep coming back to it, you know? Mikey, you saw this one, remember? After our first run. I didn't even know what it was then." He spreads out a drawing and everyone leans in to look at it. It's a stage, with a band on it, all cartoon characters with big heads.

"I guess I was thinking about signal-jamming, kind of literally, you know? I did a lot of these." He passes out drawings of radio towers, television screens full of static, even a rough comic strip showing Dr. Death Defying broadcasting signal into Battery City and the kids rising up in the streets. Ray looks at them and then at Gerard, who's chewing on his lip. "So then I was thinking," Gerard says, and he looks kind of embarrassed but he gets past it and hands round more sheets. "It's kind of juvenile I guess, um. But Pony seemed to think it was important, so I've just been keeping on with it. So... I started making this comic, and you're all in it. I already showed Frank one of them, but, um." He hands sheets around the table.

Ray looks at the page Gerard's handed him, does a double-take, and laughs. "This is me?" he asks. It's a comic-book Jet Star, based on Ray but about a thousand times cooler, fighting a bunch of baddies who look like a cross between a drac patrol and a bad vampire movie. "Vampire dracs?" he asks, and Frankie reaches over to grab his paper, swapping it for his own.

"They're draculoids," Gerard says.

"They're _awesome_ ," Frank pronounces. "Look, I'm Fun Ghoul."

"I guess I should have shown you all earlier," Gerard says, like he sounds pretty torn up about hiding it from them. Ray doesn't get it. What's the big deal?

"So there's this other thing," Gerard says quickly, like he wants to get it out there and get it over with, and then he blurts out, "I think we should form a band."

He spreads out one last big sheet of paper while everyone stares at him, mouths hanging open. "A band?" Ray asks, weakly, because comic books is one thing, but... what?

"We're doing all these art runs, right? And the kids in the city are doing more of them. The thing is... they're good but they're not enough. BLI's just as bad as it ever was, and now it's like they've got this vendetta or something, and we haven't made anything better, we've made it worse. There's kids in the city calling themselves Killjoys and they're getting in all kinds of trouble because of us, but I don't think they really get it. It's like they see what we're doing and they try to copy us, but they're not hearing what we're trying to say." Gerard is pacing around, now, jerking his arms around in bizarre frustration.

"So I think we need to do more. Not just interfere with BLI, but actually jam their signal, make a real difference. And I've had this idea kind of running around in my head and I thought it was just something for the comic book. But now Frank's here, and it turns out he plays guitar, fuck, I can't even believe that. Look at this," he says, waving at the drawing on the table.

Ray looks and takes in the sprawling detail of it, the crowd, the stage, the band — not big-headed cartoon animals this time, but the Killjoys, the comic-book Killjoys, Jet Star and Kobra Kid and Party Poison and Fun Ghoul all rocking out. Above them, huge screens show static and then start transmitting the show, and it arcs out as radio waves and lines of music across the city, while draculoids cover their ears and fall to their knees like the Wicked Witch of the West, all _I'm meeellllttttinngggg_ at the Killjoys' noise.

"Na na na?" asks Mikey, tracing a finger across the lettering that fills every spare gap across upper half of the page.

"It's a song," Gerard says. "I kept thinking about it, and hearing it in my head, and I wrote it all down, but I don't know how to make it into music. But I thought," he looks at Ray, "maybe you could help me? And Frank plays guitar, and Mikey used to play bass, and, you know, if we could get some more instruments..." he trails off.

Ray says, "You're crazy," but he knows he's got a big smile plastered across his face. Mikey mumbles something about not having played since high school, and hey, Ray didn't even know he played at all, so that's new.

And Frank — Frank just throws himself out of the booth and wraps himself around Gerard, who looks kind of shellshocked. Ray takes a moment to marvel that, after all the faith they've placed in him, Gerard didn't believe they'd follow him into this, too.

"I get to be in a band!" Frank crows. "Motherfucking _hell yeah_. We're all gonna be in a band!"

* * *

Frank's so hyped, he just wants to grab Ray's guitar and practice and practice, or maybe grab Gerard and take him out back and give him the best thank-you blowjob he's ever had, but he can't do either because Gerard and Ray end up going straight to work on the song. Gerard's pretty funny, because he's nervous, and while he'll let them read the lyrics he wrote down, he's too embarrassed to sing the tune.

"I don't know," he says, chewing on his nails. "It's like — hmm." Then he chokes up. Ray just sits there with his guitar on his knee and waits. "Like... fuck, I can hear it in my head, I just can't —" He smacks his palm against his forehead a few times, and looks wildly around as if one of them can help him get it out.

"What other songs is it like?" Ray asks, trying to be helpful, but Gerard just looks helpless.

"Is it like, _Na na na na na na na na BATMAN_?" Frank asks.

"Sort of?" Gerard says. "Like, kind of cheesy, and, um, mocking. And like something you can sing along to. Like," he says, warming up to the idea, "In the car, on the highway, you'd turn it up and roll the windows down and shout along with it."

"Okay," says Ray, and starts playing some Ramones.

Gerard nods. "Yeah, but... also a bit more..." and then _finally_ he starts singing, fitting his _Na na na_ around Ray's chords. Ray tweaks what he's playing to match Gerard's melody, and Gerard nods and tries a couple of other lines, and Frank can't help squeaking excitedly. They stop and look at him.

"Don't stop!" he says.

"Don't laugh!" Gerard retorts.

"I wasn't! I was just —" and yeah, OK maybe he was laughing, but not _at_ them. He can't help it if he laughs when he's excited. "I'll go," he says.

"You don't have to," Gerard says.

Frank really wants to stay and see this, but they'll probably do better without him hanging around and interrupting them. Ray's the music guy anyway. "Nah, it's okay," he says, and plants a kiss on Gerard's cheek. Gerard squeezes his hand. "You'll do great," Frank adds, and high-tails it out of there before he can change his mind and goes to find Mikey.

Mikey's sitting out back, texting on that old phone of his.

"How does that even work?" Frank asks, sitting down next to him. "Don't tell me you're on BLI Cellular."

"Pirate cell network," Mikey says, without looking up. "And burnt SIMs. Pete hooked us up. We've got some spares if you need one."

Frank shakes his head. It felt like a lifetime since he'd tossed his phone. It's awesome, though, how much shit they have going on out here. He had no idea. "You still keep in touch with people in Bat City?" he asks, and Mikey nods. Frank thinks for a little bit. "Can you help me get in touch with someone? Only there's this guy who helped me out, helped me get out of the city. I never let him know I'm okay, so he probably thinks I'm dead or something."

Frank doesn't know Brian's phone number, so it turns out to be kind of complicated. But Mikey's friend Pete can probably get a message through, because apparently Pete's hooked into the Matrix or some shit like that. Frank doesn't understand the half of it, but he's gotta admit he's impressed with their comms.

Mikey starts texting, and Frank just gives him the basics — he's safe, he's found what he was looking for. He wishes he could figure out how to send more detail like "got a boyfriend and having lots of sex and IN A BAND OMG" but it seems kind of awkward to ask Mikey to send that, so he lets it go.

"So," he says instead, once Mikey's done, "How long have you been playing bass?"

"I used to play in high school," Mikey says. "Years ago." Then he goes kind of quiet and closemouthed. That's the problem with Mikey, sometimes, Frank's learned. It's hard to know whether he's clamming up for a reason, or just kind of deadpan.

"Do you — do you want to do this?" Frank asks, finally. "The band, I mean. It's just, you don't seem all that excited."

"Yeah," says Mikey, "It's Gee. Of course I want to." But he goes quiet again so Frank's knows there's more to it. It seems like about five minutes before Mikey continues, "We used to play together, in our garage. Me and Gerard and a couple of other kids. Gerard sang. But it's been a really long time."

"What happened?" Frank asks, because there's obviously a story there.

Mikey shrugs. "Our grandma," he says. "She was the one who gave me my bass. She and Gerard were really close. She died, and we ended up moving. Gerard was in another band when he was at art school, but he..." Mikey pauses, and Frank thinks maybe he's not going to finish that thought, but he sets his jaw and says, "He was pretty fucked up. He did some stupid things."

Frank gets it, then. This is probably some kind of sideways Mikey-speak for "hurt him and I'll kill you." He's surprised they went this long without having this conversation, really, but he can see where Mikey's coming from.

"I don't think this is stupid," Frank says. He can't tell what Mikey's thinking, so he just keeps talking, feeling his way carefully through the landmines he knows are there. "What he's doing, this whole Killjoys thing. I think it's important. In general, I mean, but also important to Gee. So I guess that makes it important to me, too." He holds out his hand so Mikey can see the spider on the back of it. "I think it makes a difference, you know? This is everywhere — Battery City, everywhere. It means something. I'm not going to screw it up."

Mikey looks at him for a long moment. "Okay," he says, and Frank lets out the breath he was holding.

They just sit there for a while, and Frank picks up pebbles and starts flicking them across the bare dirt, and after a while Mikey does the same, and they take turns trying to hit a faded beer can lying out in the dust. Eventually they run out of pebbles within reach of where they're sitting.

"So where are we gonna get guitars?" Frank asks.

"There's a shitswap next week," Mikey says. "We can put the word out."

* * *

 _There's a light flashing on the horizon, down by the drac station the Frank helped the Skeleton Crew take out, back before he even came here. Frank blows smoke at it, and watches it disappear for a moment, then reappear. He can't tell whether he's calm or buzzing. Both, maybe. Last night's show's still ringing in his head, and he can feel it crawling and itching under his skin, the noise and the lights and the feeling of being on stage and the crowd in front of him with their hands raised, screaming as he throws himself around and falls to his knees, his guitar like an extension of his body, his voice._

 _He looks over at Gerard, who's practicing pulling his raygun from his holster and spinning it like some dude out of a western. "Dork," Frank says, around his cigarette._

 _"You're a dork," Gerard replies, then fumbles and drops it. "Shit."_

 _"Let me," says Max in disgust, and grabs the raygun before Gerard can pick it up. She twirls it with a flourish, then takes careful aim and knocks the target practice can off the curb. Then she hands it back, her eyes suddenly haunted._

 _Frank's secretly relieved she'll be coming with them tomorrow, though he knows Gerard and Ray have been blaming themselves for putting her in danger at the show, for not protecting her. Frank winces at the memory of her face when they found her in the office, and stubs out his cigarette. It's a bad memory, so he tries not to dwell on it. Instead he just keeps coming back to the stage, to the crowd, to the music washing over him and the message going out to the kids. Whatever happens tomorrow, that's what counts._

* * *

They drive out along a stretch of old highway where there's not even any ghost towns for miles. Mikey points out some high ground and Ray turns the car towards it.

They pull over and get out, leaning against the hood, Mikey's hip just touching Ray's. Frank and Gerard are around the other side, smoking, and Max is kicking at the tires. It takes them three tries to pull WKIL in on the radio, and it's still staticky even when Mikey holds out a wire antenna, waving it in different directions 'til they find the signal.

Ray's fingers dance swiftly against his thigh, pressing against invisible frets as they wait through "American Woman", "Sympathy for the Devil", and "Heart of Glass". They almost lose the signal twice, but Mikey gets it back, swearing under his breath and reaching his arm out as far as he can to find the best position.

They hold their breath as Dr. Death Defying rumbles over the waves. "Mark your berries my dustbabies, tonight's a hot one for the sly. Run downwind and half-cocked. Third time's the charm, and here's your terminational motivational speakerslam." Motorhead blasts out, "Ace of Spades".

"Ray?" Mikey says, pulling out a map and nudging him with his elbow, and Ray stops rocking out long enough to frown at his cipher key, then nods decisively, stabbing a finger at an almost empty area, nothing but a couple of rough roads.

"He said downwind and third time... here. It's going to be out by Red Rock." He gestures to the north of them, already starting to dim in the early evening. There's a faint smudge of dust rising, looks like they're not the only ones heading that way.

They get into a friendly drag race with some zonerunners on the way in and pick up a crash queen who looks like she could use the lift. Mikey jacks into the local host on his phone, following the tag and watching messages scroll by as people mark their arrivals. There's one from Pete, too, mixed in with all the check-ins: _got u a present xo_. Mikey holds it out to show Ray, who cracks a smile over it, then Mikey texts back, _what is it_.

They pass a barbed wire fence, and a sign so faded Mikey can't even read it. "Huh," says Ray.

"Military base?" asks Gerard from the back seat.

"Guess so," says Ray, and keeps driving. There's a stream of dustheads on the road, anyway, so they're definitely in the right place.

Mikey's phone buzzes. He reads, _its a surprise u have 2 cum get it_.

Ray follows the zone hoppers past a row of huts to what looks like an airstrip with a big hangar next to it. They park and start unloading, canvases and boxes of junk and Mikey's bag with the netbook and drives in it and a bright woven blanket.

The blanket goes down on their patch of cracked concrete, and their junk and Gerard's canvases get spread out across it, and they figure out who's staying and who's going.

"You wanna take first shift with me?" Gerard asks Max. "Let them find their guitars."

"Sure," Max shrugs, and sits down cross-legged on the blanket.

This shitswap's bigger than the last few they've been to, and there's a weird vibe to it. At first Mikey thinks it's just the military base, but then he starts to notice more people are armed, and more of them are looking wary. He can tell, now, when people are making ready to defend themselves. He's doing it himself, keeping an eye on his surroundings and making sure he knows where Ray and Frank are. He wishes he'd noticed before they left Gerard, so he could warn him, but it's too late now. It'll probably be fine, anyway, he thinks, but resolves not to waste too much time if he can help it.

Ray put a call out on the waves a week ago, and Salvador is right where they expected him to be, in the row of stalls full of electrical shit. He grins at them from under his hat, and greets Ray like an old friend.

"Who's this?" he asks, and Ray introduces Frank.

"Frank's the one who needs a guitar," Ray adds. "And Mikey's the bass."

Salvador nods, and bends down under his table. "I'll show you what I've got," he says, and comes up with two instruments. "You don't like them, I can see what else I can find."

Mikey picks up the bass, a black and white Fender. It's... it's a bass guitar. He hasn't held one in a long time, isn't sure he remembers what he's supposed to do with it. There's no strap, and he wouldn't know what to play even if he were ready to do that right here and now. Ray's right at his side, though, so Mikey hands it over and lets him check it out.

Frank's already fondling the other guitar, a yellow and black Epiphone, and he looks like he's going to start whispering sweet nothings to it. When Ray's done with the bass Frank takes a little persuading before he'll let go of his guitar and let Ray look it over too.

Salvador just stands by, smoking a cigarette out of the corner of his mouth and watching them with a twinkle in his eye until they're done. "You want them?" he asks. The three of them exchange glances. Frank looks like he might punch anyone who tries to take the guitar away from him, and Mikey decides he likes the way the bass feels in his hands. It's plain, but he's pretty sure Gerard will have some ideas for him there. He nods at Ray.

"How much?" says Ray, and they get down to haggling.

Mikey's shocked at the price — most of what's left of the cash cards they brought out of the city, and a fuckload of data besides — but Ray knows his stuff, and after a lengthy discussion about the state of the pickups and just what sort of philistine lets a guitar get knocked around that badly, it's sounding more reasonable and Salvador is still smiling.

"You need amps? Pedals?" he asks, and that sets off another round. Frank's wandered away. Mikey looks around quickly, but he's just a few stalls down, looking at scuffed up old game consoles. Ray finishes up and they round Frank up on their way back. He grabs his guitar from Ray and says, "Hey, baby," to it in what he probably thinks is a sexy voice, before saying, "We should get an Xbox for the diner."

"No way, PS4," says Ray, and the argument takes them most of the rest of the way around the airstrip. Mikey only half-listens. He picks up socks and batteries and lighter fluid, Frank gets wet wipes and soap and a whole pile of new clothes, and Ray snags a couple of gas cans. They have to juggle to find enough hands to carry it all back to their blanket. There's still a bunch of stuff on their list but they're going to have to make a second trip.

"Hey," says Gerard when they get back, squinting up at them, and grins when he sees the guitars. "Rock!" The stack of canvases beside him is only half the size it was when they left. Looks like business is good.

They dump all their gear. "Couldn't find any filters yet," says Ray, "So if you could keep an eye out..." Gerard nods, then looks up suddenly, at the same moment something heavy thumps against Mikey's back, almost knocking him off his feet. He jumps about a foot in the air and squawks, then spins around, coming into the defensive stance Pony taught him.

It _is_ Show Pony. Mikey lowers his hands, feeling faintly ridiculous. "Hey, sugar," Pony says, pulling off hir helmet and dropping it on the blanket. Both hands free, ze wraps them around Mikey's waist and kisses him hello, deep and dirty, then turns, not letting go of Mikey, to kiss Ray too. "Jet Star," ze purrs, and Ray looks a little flustered, but pleased.

"Hope you dustbabies are being careful out there today," ze says, addressing all of them. "The waves are hopping. There's something going down."

"What sort of something?" asks Gerard.

"Could be anything. Can't crack the crypto, but the dracs are buzzing like flies. Just stay sharp, 'kay?"

Gerard nods. "I'll try and be quick," he says, and gets up from the blanket, ready to go do his lap of the swapsite.

Pony and Max share a few low words, and Max follows Gerard off through the crowd, hands in her pockets and scuffing her sneakers in the dust. As attempts at nonchalance go, it's not all that convincing. Mikey feels a momentary urge to protest that Gerard can look after himself, but squashes it down. Might as well face facts: Max could probably kick any of their asses if she wanted to.

Ray and Frank are settling in to an impromptu jam session with the guitars, so Mikey and Pony sit by the blanket and take care of business. It only takes about half their attention, so they keep up a low conversation in between bartering and transferring bits.

"Heard you're hitting the Springs soon," says Pony. Mikey nods. "Don't wanna dust your plans, sweet thing, but the crash queens've been putting out the word that it's getting hotter than hell again down there. You sure you know what you're doin'?"

Mikey's got no answer to that, so he just stays quiet.

Pony looks at him, and sighs. "You need anything, you tell me."

"Yeah," Mikey says. "Thanks."

Mikey and Ray have been talking for a while about getting a motorbike — Pony says the Skeleton Crew can probably hook them up — so when someone comes by with a helmet in pretty good condition, Mikey trades most of Nick Cave's back catalog for it. He's busy fixing the visor when Gerard shows up again. Gee's knuckles are white, fingers clenched, and he trembles a little when he opens his hand to show Mikey an innocuous looking flash drive.

"It's Korse. He sent me a message," Gerard says, voice low but pitched so none of them miss it. Even Frank doesn't argue, setting his guitar aside, because Gerard's face looks like he's just seen a ghost. Max is rounding them all up and trying to fold the blanket before they've even moved all the crap off it.

They all pile into the car, which is pretty much the only private place they have, and Gerard explains. "I was at Manny's stall, you know, the one with the game consoles, and this guy came up acting weird," he says, his voice tight. "He kept staring at me, and then he followed me outside and grabbed me and said, 'This is a message from Korse,' then he handed me the drive and fucking disappeared. Scary fucking dude."

Mikey pulls out his netbook and fires it up, handing it to Gerard who balances it awkwardly on the dashboard. They all lean forward to try and see the screen, while Gerard plugs in the drive and opens it. There's just one video file there. Gerard clicks it.

The BLI logo fills the screen, then cuts away to show Korse, sitting at a desk. Mikey recognizes him, even though he hasn't seen him since before they all came west. Mikey clenches his jaw. He never really liked the guy, even when Gerard was really into him. Korse has obviously been working on his sneer, and his fashion sense is even worse than it used to be back in art school, when he'd worn a lot of black turtlenecks.

"Hello, Gerard," Korse says. "I apologize for the unusual method of delivery, but you didn't exactly leave a forwarding address. I imagine this will reach you regardless. We have our eyes and ears, even outside the city." Korse smiles a tight smile and leans a little toward the camera. "I've been following your career since you left BLI with some interest. I hope you're finding your new role as fulfilling as I'm finding mine." Mikey can feel Gerard's tension beside him, but nobody says anything. "I'm sure you've heard by now that Secretary Sato's confirmed my promotion as head of the Department for Reclamation of Art and Culture. I must admit I'm taking a very _personal_ pleasure in overseeing the department's enforcement activities."

"Motherfucker!" says Frank, indignantly, but Gerard shushes him.

Mikey's distracted for a moment by Frank, and when he looks back Korse is saying, "... against BLI property is vandalism, pure and simple. Your 'art', as you call it, is a threat to social order and to all that BLI stands for. Look around you. Better Living Industries is all that's holding this country together. You think you can undermine that with your anarchist pranks and your kindergarten paint-splatters, but I think you'll find you're wrong."

The video cuts away just as Mikey thinks he can't bear the guy's face for another minute. Mikey has no idea how Gerard is not exploding right now. Then Mikey realizes what he's looking at on the screen. It's surveillance camera footage, grainy and grey, of the skate shop they've been using as their city base.

"We're closing down your little art school, arresting your so-called 'Killjoys'," Korse says in voiceover. "And we'll be increasing patrols throughout the city and in all surrounding zones." Then Korse's face is back and he's leaning in toward the camera. "Really, Gerard," he says, "your idealism is quite endearing, but this attempt at rebellion is really very tedious. It's always seemed to me that you're bitter because your work just isn't commercially viable. That's your problem, isn't it? I tried to help you, but I guess you just didn't have what it takes to succeed." His look of pasted-on sympathy turns to a smirk, as he signs off. "Adios, Gerard. I'll be seeing you."

The video ends with the Better Living logo again, smiling inanely and kind of creepily out of the screen, and Gerard stares at it for a long moment before slamming the netbook shut. "Classy," he says.

"He was your _boss_?" Ray asks, at the same moment Frank says, "He's your _ex_?"

"He was different!" Gerard protests. "In art school, I mean." Then he rubs at his eyes and says, "Okay, maybe not that different. He was always kind of an asshole."

"No shit," Frank says.

"He used to wear black turtlenecks," Mikey says, and Frank looks like he's going to rupture something laughing at that.

"Guys, shut up," says Gerard. "We need to — shit. Text Pete, Mikey." Mikey's already on it, thumbs moving fast over his phone's keyboard. "We need to find out what's going on in the city, make sure the kids are okay. They're my responsibility. You don't all have to come with me, but I need to go back and —"

He's cut off by a flurry of protest, everyone talking at once, but it's Pony's voice that rises over the hubbub. "Gears not grinding in those pretty heads, motorbabies? Bring on the fucking queens," ze drawls, and when Gerard stares at hir like he doesn't know what ze means, ze just tells him, "The fuck you think we _do_ this for? Come on, Doc's got their wave stationside."

Mikey grabs Gerard's hand as Ray starts the car. "He's wrong," he says, willing Gerard to believe him. Gerard's always been kind of fucked up about Korse. He looks like he's going to protest, but instead he just shrugs and turns away to stare out the window, forehead creased, gnawing on a hangnail.

They head back to the gas station and pull in round the back, out of sight of the highway. It's dark inside, as always, after the glaring sun, and it takes Mikey's eyes a moment to adjust. Doc's at his workbench, flipping switches and tweaking dials as bursts of static and half-audible voices crackle from the speakers beside him.

"Waves are hopping this aftermid," he says. "Hear you've been making some friends."

Gerard nods, then says, "Yeah," since Doc hasn't even turned round to look at him.

"We've got drac patrols in every zone, checkpoints on Route Guano, reports coming in from all over the fucking place. There's some serious shit going down there. Picked up a trans you gotta eye, too. They're looking for you, sunshine."

Doc flips a switch, and Korse's face appears on one of the screens off his side. "Hello, Gerard," he says. "I apologize for the unusual method of delivery — "

"We've seen it," Gerard says, and shudders. "Shit, turn it off."

"It's not paranoia if they _are_ out to get you," Doc says with a dry laugh, and makes the creepy fucker's face dissolve in a wash of static.

"They're not just out to get _me_ ," Gerard says. "Korse is out to get all of us, _because_ of me. Fuck. The kids — this is my fault, fuck. Korse wouldn't be going after them like this if I wasn't involved. Look, I don't know if you can, like, find out what happened to the skate shop? Mikey texted Pete but he hasn't got back yet, which means he's probably in trouble, so if you could..." he trails off, hopefully.

Doc grumbles, but he leans in and flicks on the mic and growls into it, "You're listening to WKIL, Doctor Death Defying spinning the slaughtermatic sounds. It's five o'clock in the aftermid, and Party Poison wants to know where his kids are. We're sending out the signal to all you Killjoys in Bat City doin' it for the cause. Check in and let us know what's hoppin'." He switches off and NOFX snarls over the waves.

There's nothing to do but wait and watch while the Doctor keeps pumping out the tunes and monitoring the waves. The broadcast they pick up from the city's a crackling, choppy mess, but it's the best they can get. A voice comes through, "... top trans, junkpunks: just got word from a ... trashed the place, total white-out ... away clean ..." It's useless and frustrating, not even enough to get a sense of what's going on.

Mikey's phone buzzes, and he whips it out and opens it up. It's Pete. _im ok sk8 shops trashed 2 kids taken_ , it says. Gerard's looking at him so Mikey just hands the phone over for him to read.

"Fuck," he says, and hands the phone back.

It buzzes again: _voip me_.

"Can I use your net link?" Mikey asks.

They hook up the link and power it up. "Ten minutes," Doc says, as Max crawls out from under the table and hands Mikey the end of a patch cable. "Any dracs tune in, it's coming straight down."

Pete's voice on the other end of the link sounds strained. "We got a couple of hours' warning," he says. "Saw the orders coming over the ‘net, managed to decrypt them. I put the word out to anyone I could get in touch with, but some of them were off the network, you know? Gabe tried to find them, but I guess he missed them. So he was — you know that taco place down the street?"

"Yeah," Mikey says.

"So him and Travie were watching from there. The dracs came in and I guess they found the kids there. Luis and Wayne. Gabe says they both got taken off in the van, then the dracs stayed and emptied the place. Took all the stuff, then painted over everything, the walls and the spider and all that. I checked the records, looks like Luis and Wayne are up for a bunch of culture violations, intellectual property, the usual shit. Hey, you still there?"

"Yeah," Mikey says again, then realizes he should mention the others. "Gerard and Ray and Frank too. And — everyone."

"So tell Gerard we're gonna need another workshop," Pete says.

"It's okay," Gerard breaks in. "We should probably just lay low, send the kids home, wait to — "

"Shut the fuck up," Pete says. "We need another workshop. So I'm gonna talk to Gabe, see if we can use the Park. They're all dumb as rocks down there, they won't even notice. Look, I gotta go."

"Yeah, us too."

"Take care, Mikeyway," Pete says. "Don't let your dumbshit brother chicken out on us. I wanna hear this band of yours."

The trans clicks out, and Mikey unplugs the ethernet. Gerard's chewing on his nails.

"You dustbabies starting a band?" Doctor Death Defying asks. "Now that I can get behind." He wheels out to face them. "Sounds like you're in this for keeps, if your boy in Bat City's anything to go by. You got a plan?"


	4. Chapter 4

They have a plan. Ray, who is creepily organized, even has a _list_. It's just that there are so many things on the plan, or the list, or whatever, that Gerard's overwhelmed. Guitars were the first thing on the list, and those were easy enough. The next item's a drummer, though, and that's a problem.

"I swear to you, she's fucking awesome," Frank says.

Gerard hunches in on himself. It's not that he doesn't trust Frank or believe him, but he just can't deal with it right now. "I know, it's just." He looks at the sketch in front of him, that he's trying to get inked and colored. There's four of them, four Killjoys, four band members, and it's enough that he's dragging Ray and Mikey and Frank along on his crazy plan without pulling in yet another person, a complete stranger.

"We don't have to make her, like, an official Killjoy," Frank points out. "She probably wouldn't join our gang anyway. She's got her own crew."

Gerard shakes his head. "Maybe Pony —" he says.

"Nuh uh, sugar," Pony says, spinning in a circle. "And before you ask, you're not gonna get Max to do it either. You need Kitty." They've been through it a dozen times already. Pony insists that ze's going to be in charge of security, and Max has started to get a gleam in her eye at the thought of all the tech they're going to need.

"We need a drummer," Ray says, for like the millionth time.

"I _know_ , alright?" Gerard knows he's being pissy, and sighs. "What if she's no good?"

"Give her a try-out," says Ray. "If she's no good we'll think of something else. Maybe you can play the tambourine."

Gerard huffs a laugh and rolls his eyes. "Okay, whatever," he says. Fucking Ray, always being reasonable.

There's so much to do, and Gerard starts to freak out every time he thinks about it. He needs to get the comic finished. Then he needs to get his comic _distributed_ , fuck, he doesn't even know how the fuck to manage that, whether they can find a printer at a shitswap or what. He thought about doing it all online, but he wants to reach more people than that, and out here it's only a handful who've got access. Then on top of that, Pete's been texting constantly about the new workshop they're setting up at the Park, and the art runs going on in the city, and he keeps asking when they're going to actually hit the road and start playing shows, and what they're going to do about venues, and how they're going to promote it and everything.

"...and we don't even know if anyone will anyone even come!" Gerard rants at Gabe the one time they actually get him on the line, wearing a paint-stained BLI jumpsuit over a neon hoodie and holding an electric drill. Gerard can't help thinking that seems dangerous, but by all accounts the workshop's working well so far, kids coming out to the Park from all around the city, and nobody's paying any attention yet.

Gabe just laughs and says, "Oh, aren't you precious. Don't you worry about it — me and Pete'll bring the crowd if you bring the music." He makes some kind of obscure hand gesture into the vid camera and smacks a wet kiss at the screen before breaking the connection. Gabe's weird.

And then on top of everything else, since Korse's creepy-ass message they're being extra wary of the drac patrols. Doc gave them a terrifying lecture about how not to get dusted, and now Gerard also has to freak out about defending the diner, setting lookouts, escape routes, and how the hell he's supposed to do anything other than flail and fall on his ass if he has to face a drac mano a mano. The only good news is that the dracs still don't seem to know where the Killjoys are. Either the dracs are incompetent or else all that crypto stuff has been working, or, the other option that's kept Gerard up nights: Korse is just playing cat and mouse with them, letting Gerard and his crew run free in the desert, then arresting the kids in the city where it gets him the best PR.

Meanwhile, Ray and Frank and Mikey spend hours and hours practicing. Frank's just rusty, and it doesn't take long for him to get back up to speed, but Mikey needs coaching. He plays his bass with intent concentration, staring down at his hands as he tries to make his fingers move the right way. Frank's alternately jumping around the practice space like a maniac, or whining about his sore fingertips and making Gerard kiss them better.

Sometimes Gerard works with them, or just with Ray, struggling through the rough scrawls in his notebooks to find the actual song under all the words, while Ray tries to make sense of his humming and hand-waving and turn it into chords and notes. Other times, Gerard leaves them to it, and goes to hide out in the kitchen, sitting on a stool by the counter, to work on his comic.

The hard part is coming up with a plot. All the drawings he'd done, scattered across dozens and dozens of sheets of paper, show moments in time, but now he needs a narrative arc, something to tie it all together. So he draws the Killjoys on an epic mission to save rock and roll, racing across the dust in search of the world's last remaining Ramones albums, fighting fanged, soul-sucking draculoids and leaving them in blood-spattered piles of dismembered limbs, and finally arriving triumphant in their version of Gotham City to play a concert so loud it literally blows away the grim facades of the buildings and leaves nothing but rubble.

He stares at the last page, then crumples it and throws it away.

The next version is better, he thinks, though it makes him feel dry-mouthed and nervous as he works on it. In it, crowds stream in to the city after them, thousands of them, like rats swarming after the Pied Piper — no, better, an army of Killjoys, together, all in bright colors against the city's grey. And as the band plays, they all raise their hands and shout the words, and the power of their voices causes a feedback loop that shorts out the city's official transmissions, and their voices twine through the air like sparks and rainbows.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of kids. He doesn't even know how many kids they've got following them right now. Every time they talk to Pete it seems there are more and more of them in the city, and there are people doing stuff in the Springs and all through the Zones that Gerard's never heard of, never spoken to, but they're all trying for the same thing. That's what it's going to take, he realizes, though he freaks out a bit every time he thinks about the kids he's putting in danger, like Luis and Wayne who are still locked up. Thousands of Killjoys. He keeps coming back to it, again and again: the power of a crowd all shouting together, a blast of energy so powerful it can wipe out any other signal. The killjoy circuit.

He gathers up the sheets and stacks them, trying to line them up in a neat sheaf, ready to show the others, and then, hopefully, go get them printed. In the next room, he hears Frank and Ray and Mikey come crashing to the end of their song. It feels like it's starting to come together.

* * *

Frank's been away from the Springs long enough that he's forgotten how fucking weird it smells. He's missed it just enough that the stench of burning plastic makes him wrinkle his nose and grin. Gerard gives him a confused look, like he's waiting to get in on the joke. Frank just sticks his arms out the window and lets his palm surf the air as they blow down Route Guano into the Springs.

They pass a patrol of dracs sitting in their squad car. "Fucking vampires," Mikey mutters, and Gerard quirks a grin. Frank holds his breath as they slide past the patrol, tugging at the glove he's wearing over his tattoo. The dracs look bored and disaffected — they barely glance at the Trans Am, and in the backseat Ray reports that they didn't look like they were taking the plates. Frank's glad he won the argument to temporarily cover up the hood of the car with a yellow smiley done in water-based paint, even if it did offend Gerard.

They pull up to the Queen of Hearts and Frank bursts out of the car as soon as he can, flinging himself at the door and banging on it, too excited to give the secret knocking pattern Jamia showed him. He sees a suspicious dark eye peer out the window, then the door is open and Jamia's laughing and putting up with him half choking her with the hugest hug.

"Nice to see you too, Frankie!" she laughs, and kisses his temple.

"Look what the cat dragged in. It's the Exterminator's little band of rebels. Fuckin' idiots," LynZ smirks at Frank. "I hear you've got a piece on the side, Pumpkin."

Frank blushes a little and beams a lot. "Yeah," he says, surprised. "Who told you that?"

LynZ shrugs. "You can't keep secrets from crash queens, dustbaby." Her grin widens as Mikey and Gerard and Ray catch up and duck into the little lobby. "Impossible when his brother's screwing Show Pony. How's that all going for all you boys?" She leers, taking in Mikey and Ray and giving them the once-over. Pony leers right back at her and winks.

Frank has to stare at his boots and bite his cheek really hard to keep from laughing forever at the expressions on Ray and Mikey's faces. Ray's turned a fetching shade of pink, and Mikey looks like he's determined to out-impassive Spock.

"No Max?" LynZ asks.

"Left her back with Doc," Pony says. "She sends her love and a shopping list long as your arm."

Looks like LynZ and Pony are gonna spend a while catching up, so Frank says, "C'mon, you have to meet Kitty," and grabs Gerard by the arm, shepherding Ray and Mikey along too.

"Uh..." Gerard says, waving at Jamia and LynZ, who smile back tolerantly as Frank drags them across the courtyard to one of the rooms on the opposite side. The doors are all unmarked apart from the old motel numbers, but it's not hard to figure out which room Kitty's in. There's a high-pitched whine and the spitting hiss of a welding torch.

"Fuck!" they hear when Frank knocks on the door. "Come in, just a second, fuck."

The room used to be a suite with a kitchenette and sink, but now it's bare of furnishings aside from a giant worktable and a beat up wooden stool. Three of the walls are completely the same lurid pink as the rest of the place, but the fourth's been painted with that cheap blackboard stuff, and there's scrawls of math and funny diagrams all over it. There are heaps of electronics and wires and tools piled haphazardly all around the room.

They shuffle in and find Kitty kneeling by an old modded-up motorcycle, goggles down and hair pulled back into a no-nonsense black ponytail. She's welding something onto the frame, tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth in fierce concentration, torch held steady, the blue flame barely wavering. Fuck, Frank's glad to see her again, safe and in one piece.

"Hey, Kitty," Frank says when she finally turns off her torch.

She lifts her mask and beams, then puts down all her welding crap then comes over and wraps Frank in a hug that threatens to crush the air out of him. "Frank! Thanks for blasting me out of that drac shack. How the fuck've you been, puppy?"

Frank ignores Ray snorting in the background and manages to pull himself free enough to say, "Great! I found the Killjoys and we're living in that old diner out on Route Guano, you know the one?" Kitty nods and Frank just keeps talking, his mouth running away with him as he tries to catch her up on, fuck, months of his life. "And this is Gerard and Mikey and Ray and Gerard's the artist, and he's also my boyfriend, I guess maybe you heard about that. He's been writing songs too and we're pretty much trying to fuck BLI up any way we can and, uh, I kind of told them you might join our band."

"Your what?" she says. "Wanna try that again, a little slower?"

"We're starting a band," Frank says.

"Oh... kay," Kitty says.

"This is Ray and Mikey, they're lead guitar and bass," he adds. "Gerard sings, and I play guitar too. And — and we need a drummer. And you said..." He tails off, suddenly recalling how she'd seemed so sad and angry when she was talking about her old band. He should've remembered that.

Kitty's shaking her head but she's smiling. "Frankie, you fucking freak," she says. She looks at the others speculatively. "What sort of band?"

Gerard steps forward and answers, "It's — it's kind of hard to classify? Uh, we've only really got one song at the moment, but we're working on some more. Some punk, dirty rock, some sort of dance stuff... I guess we're just writing what comes to us, trying not to be too limited, you know?"

"Hmm," she says, looking dubious, and Frank shifts from foot to foot, about to say something about how she doesn't have to, how it was just an idea. Then Kitty looks at Frank, and back at Gerard, and nods once before saying, "Why don't you show me what you've got?"

Her drum kit's set up in one of the other hotel rooms, so that's where they unload their gear. Frank's relieved that she's _got_ a kit, and even more relieved that apparently she still plays it regularly. There's no furniture, and the kit's up against one wall, so they set up around her in the empty space. They don't have that much gear — the guitars and the little practice amps they use take up about all the room there is in Ray's car — so it doesn't take long for them to haul everything in. Alicia helps them get everything plugged in, and she obviously knows what she's doing. Frank didn't know she played, but it figures. Kitty's leaning against the wall, looking interested but not too invested. Frank takes it as a good sign when she picks up some sticks and spins them in her hand while she waits for them to get their guitars tuned up.

Frank finishes getting his shit sorted out and looks over at Gerard, who's fidgeting like he's about to run away, or maybe puke. Huh. Gerard's gotten pretty comfortable singing at the diner, just for them and Show Pony and Max, but Frank realises he's never seen him sing for someone new, someone he doesn't know and trust. Frank gives Gerard a thumbs-up sign and Gerard smiles weakly. Shit, Frank thinks, he hopes Gerard's not always like this when he has to perform. That would suck.

"I just, I need to," Gerard says, and bolts for the bathroom. Frank drops his guitar and races after him, ducking in before Gerard can close the door.

"Stop freaking out," Frank says, once the door's shut behind them, reaching up to tangle his hands in Gerard's hair and pull him in for a kiss.

Gerard kisses him back distractedly, and says, "I need to pee."

"You need to stop freaking out. It's only Kitty." And Jamia and Alicia and maybe LynZ if she comes in, but he doesn't mention that.

"She's — what if she hates us?"

"Of course she won't, dumbass." Okay, maybe that wasn't the most reassuring thing to say. Frank huffs impatiently. He tries to keep his voice calm, not wanting to freak Gerard out even more. "Look, if she's any good, she's gonna want to know if we're good. So she wants to hear us play. So we get out there and play it, okay?"

"Um."

"The song is awesome," Frank says firmly. Then, to push it home, he backs Gerard up against the basin and wraps himself around Gerard and kisses him as hard and sloppy as he knows how. " _You're_ awesome."

When he comes up for air, Gerard's mouth is all wet and red and he's got some color back in his face and he doesn't look like he wants to run away any more, so that's good. "Are you done freaking out?" Frank asks.

"Maybe?" Gerard says, and rubs at his face. "I guess if she hates it we can go back to the tambourine plan." Frank snorts. Gerard takes a deep breath. "It's just... I haven't performed in a long time. Not since I was in art school," he says. "I was different then, I was taking a lot of stuff..." He trails off, frowning, so Frank just kisses him again.

"I like who you are now," Frank says, with his mouth pressed against Gerard's so it's kind of incoherent, but he thinks Gerard will figure it out anyway. Gerard grabs him and hugs him tight for a minute before letting go.

"You good?" Frank asks. "Or am I going to have to kick your ass?"

Gerard nods, like he at least halfway means it, then says, "I still need to pee."

"Okay. See you out there." Frank ducks out before Gerard can respond and shrugs nonchalantly in response to Ray's look of what-the-fuck.

 _Back-stage blowjobs_ , Frank thinks as he puts his guitar back on. If that's what it takes to get Gerard over his nerves and up on stage, then Frank's ready to take one for the team. Enthusiastically. He leers to himself until he catches Mikey's ferocious _I really don't want to know, dude, god_ , look. Frank sticks his tongue out at him and waggles it suggestively.

Gerard comes out after another minute or two and says, "Okay?" and they all look at each other and nod. He takes his place at the mic. Kitty stops fooling with her drumsticks and just holds them, looking expectant, as Ray counts himself in and starts playing the opening bars.

Then Frank and Mikey come in, and they all start to sing. Frank's trying to put everything he's got into it, to make it easier for Gerard. Gerard just swallows once or twice then joins them on the _na na na_ , and Frank can see by about the second time through that Gerard's shoulders have dropped from around his ears and he's starting to loosen up and get into it.

Gerard belts out the words of the first verse, and Frank tries to pound as much rhythm out of his guitar as he can, to make up for the lack of drums and show Kitty what it ought to be. Frank's watching her out of the corner of his eye as he plays, and when she starts drumming on her knee in the second chorus, he can't stop himself from jumping up and down a bit in excitement, because she's _totally_ going to do this, he can tell. He catches Ray's eye, and Ray's seen it too, and he's grinning under his hair as he headbangs through his solo.

They fly into the final section, Gerard finally screaming out the lyrics and leaning into them like he's racing downhill to the end. When they finish with a final crash of chords and feedback, he stops, chest heaving, wide-eyed, like he's not sure what just happened.

Kitty tucks her sticks under her arm and applauds. "Fucking awesome," she says.

"I told you so," Frank crows, and throws himself at Gerard, guitar and all, to plant a kiss on his cheek. Gerard stumbles but catches him, grinning.

"You wanna try that again?" Kitty asks, taking a seat behind her kit and looking at them all expectantly.

It's rocky at first, everyone starting and stopping and talking over each other and trying to figure out who comes in when and how it should work. It takes them about eight tries to get through the song at all, and Kitty only makes it to the end with her teeth gritted in concentration.

"Again?" she asks.

By the third run-through after that, it's starting to gel. Everyone seems to knows what's what, and Frank's not having to count in his head and think about every chord any more. He starts to get really into it, rocking out while he plays, enjoying himself. It's a rush.

He hits his final chord with a flourish and the speaker beside him squeals. "Fuck," he says, adjusting the knob on his guitar and inching away from the amp. "Feedback, motherfuckers."

"Maybe if you didn't try to jump around like a bat on steroids?" Ray says archly.

"Bats don't take steroids," Frank protests.

Mikey frowns thoughtfully. "Batman does have all those muscles..."

"Batman does not fucking take steroids!" Frank says, but Gerard cuts in before the argument can really get going.

"Again?" he says. "For real this time?"

Gerard's kind of been phoning it in while everyone figures out their parts with the drums, just singing enough that they know where they are in the song, but not going all out. They all quiet down and launch into it for the millionth time. This time, though, when Gerard sucks a breath in and wails, "Drugs, gimme drugs, gimme drugs," he is fucking unstoppable.

Frank's bouncing up and down, and Ray is headbanging when he doesn't have to sing, and Mikey is actually grinning with the rush of it, ducking his head and banging away at the bass. Gerard is kind of radiant, jerking his hands around for emphasis or maybe just for the fucking joy of it exploding out of him, cocking his hip and banging his heel furiously on the floor.

Gerard rushes the last verse and they clatter to an ending, riding Frank's feedback and Mikey's last strum, and Frank is giggling helplessly and Gerard is blinking like he just woke up.

"Holy fuck," Kitty says into the beat of silence after the sound dies, "Fucking hotshit right here."

"No fucking lie," Jamia says from where she's leaning against the wall. She reaches over the drums to high-five Kitty. "BLI is going to fucking hate it."

Frank hugs Gerard, then kisses him deep and dirty and sticks his hands in Gerard's pockets, fishing for his cigarettes and lighter. "Fuck, I need a smoke after that," he says, opening the poolside door and lighting two, shoving one in Gerard's mouth and dragging him outside by the hand.

They go and stand by the pool. Frank can't stop bouncing around. Gerard ends up hanging on to the back of his t-shirt, keeping him from falling off the edge of the pool where he's balancing on the balls of his feet. That would fucking hurt, because the pool's full of junk and dirt and stuff, but he's not going to fall in. He's just hyper.

Gerard wraps an arm around him and puts his chin on Frank's shoulder, blowing smoke past his ear. "Kitty's good," he says, like it's a reluctant admission but he's man enough to say it.

"Too right she's fucking good," says a voice behind them, and they turn around to see Jamia and Kitty coming across to join them by the pool. "You're not bad yourself," Jamia adds, as though she's given the matter careful consideration before reaching an opinion.

"Thanks," says Gerard, and looks down at Frank's feet.

Kitty looks kind of thoughtful, but her face is still flushed from playing and she said it was awesome, so Frank's not surprised when she and Gerard share a look and a nod. Yeah, Frank thinks, it's gonna work.

"So, you two, huh?" Jamia asks, looking from Frank to Gerard and back. They've still got their arms around each other.

"Yeah," Frank says, and realizes he sounds kind of defensive. Not that it's any of her business. He pulls Gerard closer.

"You're so fucking cute I could barf," she says with a grin, which probably means she approves. At least that saves Frank from having to challenge her to a duel for Gerard's honor or something.

Then Jamia turns to Gerard and says, "You should have seen him when he first showed up here, like a lost puppy. Kitty was gonna get him a collar and all." Then she's off telling Gerard about how clueless Frank was and how she was pretty sure he was going to get eaten by cannibals or blow himself up or something when she sent him off into the desert all on his own, Kitty breaking in from time to time even though she'd hardly even _met_ him before she got herself captured by the dracs, what the fuck. Doesn't stop her from telling how Frank walked into a rival gang's bar his first day in town.

Then Gerard tells them how Frank had almost died of pneumonia in a roadside diner, and although Frank tries to protest, it's like they're actually bonding or something over how they all think he's a pathetic loser. He puts up a protest, calling them all motherfuckers and threatening to beat them up, but they're laughing and they're getting along, so he's not too upset.

They sit around by the pool for a while, smoking and talking shit. Frank can hear the sounds of Ray and Mikey going over something in the practice room. He starts to feel guilty about not being in there with them, so he looks over at Kitty. "Do you think we should —"

Before he can finish the thought, there's a banging sound behind them, at the back entrance to the compound. They're all on their feet in an instant, Jamia and Kitty taking the lead. When Frank catches up with them, they're opening the gate and Show Pony's ducking inside. Ze's got a truly ugly laser burn striping hir hip, the fabric of hir clothing charred and torn, and the wound red and angry and probably on its way to a nasty infection.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Jamia exclaims.

"I'll get Alicia," Kitty says, and darts off to find her.

"Caught up to a drac patrol taking out some waveheads down by the strip. Had to hide offroad, but saw it all, and didn't move quick enough," ze says, dropping hir pack carefully over hir shoulder on the uninjured side and collapsing awkwardly onto one of the lounge chairs. "Got Max's shinies, at least."

"They fucking shot at you?" Frank knows he's probably freaking out a bit, but fuck. "What the fuck." Stunners are one thing, but that's a real hit on Pony's side. He thinks he can even smell the burnt flesh, and it makes his stomach turn.

"It was a real firefight, dustbunny," ze says, hir voice sounding raw. "Fuckers have those rayguns turned up to eleven. Not just the waveheads and burnt zone hoppers to skip now. Weren't fucking around — dracs just dusted them. With extreme fucking prejudice."

Alicia arrives, cool and calm and armed with a first aid kit. She casts an impassive eye over Pony's wound, but Frank sees her catch and squeeze Pony's fingers before turning to examine the burn.

"Caught it good," she murmurs, pulling scissors and sterile gauze out of the box. "Turn on your side. I'm going to have to cut this away. Yeah," she says sympathetically, as she cuts open the leg of Pony's tights and spreads the fabric. Pony hisses, and Frank looks away. "You mix up with some motorgreasers? Thought you'd better sense, Show Pony."

"It was the dracs," Frank says, as Kitty comes back with Mikey and Ray in tow. The two guys crowd around Pony, hovering until Alicia smacks Mikey on the arm and orders him to sit down and stay the fuck out of the way while she finishes dressing Pony's burn.

"Those phasers aren't set to stun. They're shooting to kill," Gerard says. "Fuck."

"Shiny new pieces, too. First time I saw 'em, baby. Looks like your buddy Korse's got money to burn. These motherfucker's've had training, too. They're not shitting around out here anymore," ze says, catching LynZ's eye. Something's going on there, but Frank can't read minds, so he just clutches Gerard's hand instead.

Frank feels awkward and kind of useless just standing around watching Alicia do painful-looking things to Pony. "What the fuck are we gonna do?" he asks.

Gerard is staring into the pool. "I'm not sure," he says, but his expression's grim and he looks like he's trying to figure something out.

"Right," says Alicia, finishing up the dressing and rummaging in her kit. "Show Pony, it's your lucky day. I don't give the good stuff to just anyone." She pulls out a black and white bottle and cracks it open, shaking two pills into her hand and passing them to Pony along with a water bottle. "You take them and then you lie down," she says, "before you fall down."

Gerard squeezes Frank's hand, gripping it tight. Frank says, "Ow," then looks at him. Gerard's staring intently away from Pony and Alicia, looking tense and unhappy. _Oh_ , Frank thinks, remembering what Gerard said earlier in the bathroom. He said he'd been taking a lot of stuff. A few things are starting to click together in Frank's mind. _Later_ , he thinks. That's something he ought to know about. Then Alicia packs her kit up and goes to put it away, and Gerard relaxes enough for Frank to get some circulation back in his fingers.

LynZ frowns. "I'm gonna wave Doc and Max and let them know. You Killjoys and Pony are staying here toneve and tomorrow too. Alicia will want to keep an eye. Jamia, you can get the word to the circuit. Crash queens gotta lay low until we figure this."

Gerard lets go of Frank's hand and tugs at a lank lock of his hair, staring intently at the shit in the bottom of the pool, and says, "I think... I think we need to arm up."

* * *

They get Show Pony settled in one of the rooms, lying awkwardly on hir side on one of the hotel beds. LynZ leans over to drop a kiss on hir forehead, muttering, "Glad you're not dead, you stupid motherfucker," and Mikey and Ray hang back to tuck hir in and stay around 'til the painkillers knock hir out. There's nothing they can do but let hir sleep, so they all move out to the patio outside Pony's room, eating a makeshift dinner and trying to figure out what the fuck they need to do now.

"Well past time you boys got with the program, if you ask me," LynZ says.

Gerard shakes his head. "I don't like that this is the solution," he says. "It's _not_ the solution. But it's necessary."

"Self-defense," says Mikey, looking straight at him.

"Yeah," says Gerard. "For all of us." He looks around, and Ray and Frank are looking straight back at him too, and they maybe look a little surprised, but none of them look like they disagree. Thank fucking Christ. He wouldn't have blamed any of them for wanting to cut and run. "I got you all into this. I still believe in what we're doing, that it's important. There are kids, people, in the city who need us, our message, more than ever. But if we want to do that, now that we know the dracs really mean business, we need to protect ourselves."

"A-fucking-men," says LynZ, as Jamia and Alicia shoot each other a look.

Later, Gerard and Frank take one of the pepto-bismol rooms. It's been a long time since they've had a real bed and a real room to themselves. It's hot, and even though they're used to it by this point it's a relief to strip out of sweat-sticky jeans and brush the dust off their teeth and lie down on the bed.

Gerard sighs, happily. After the hard floor of the diner and the itchy old sleeping bag, the cheap hotel sheets and stiff mattress feel luxurious. Frank's sprawled across the covers, too, limbs everywhere, and they just lie there for a minute, appreciating it, 'til Frank rolls over on one elbow and says abruptly, "Can we talk about the thing with the pills back there?"

Gerard covers his eyes with his hands and rubs them, like it'll help them not feel raw and dry. "Yeah," he says, eventually. Then he doesn't know what to say.

"You don't have to," Frank says.

Gerard shakes his head. "It's okay," he says. "Hit the lights?"

Frank rolls over and flicks the light switch. Afterimages dance in front of Gerard's eyes for a moment, then Frank lies back down where he was and reaches his hand out to cross the gap between their bodies. His fingertips just touch Gerard's, resting on top of them over the pink bedspread.

There's a long silence, then Gerard speaks into the darkness. "I'm an addict." It's been a long time since he's said that. It's good to get it out there.

"Mmm?" Frank says, softly.

"It was mostly alcohol at first," Gerard says, "ever since I was a kid. It's in my family, I guess. Then when I was at art school, I started taking other things. Pills. Prescription stuff, mostly." He can feel Frank's fingertips moving over his, stroking his hand with tiny motions, so he keeps going. "I guess it was all tied up with trying to be an artist, trying to express something I couldn't get out without some kind of help. I was afraid to do it sober. And everyone around me seemed to be taking something. Korse —" he pauses, then figures there's no reason not to say it, "Korse always had stuff. But he — he never took them the way I did."

It's not as if he even really remembers it. That was the point. A handful of pills and a bottle of vodka, and he could forget that his art was shit, that he hated his dead-end corporate job, that he was fucking the guy who was going to be promoted to team lead because he was better at kissing ass than Gerard was.

"After we transferred to Battery City, that was the worst time for me," he tells Frank. "I didn't know anyone except Mikey and Korse. And BLI... you know CorpHealth will give you as many drugs as you ask for. So I kept asking for more, and they kept giving them to me. It's not like — I didn't need them. I mean, I needed them because I was an addict, but CorpHealth wanted that, I think. BLI wanted it. You've seen the ads. They just want you to be... nothing. Empty. And I just didn't care any more. I — one night, I was in the bathroom, on the floor, you know? And I was thinking about how to say goodbye to Mikey. And then I realized I couldn't do that."

Gerard takes a deep breath, remembering what it was like, and can't help it shuddering on the exhale. Frankie's perfectly still. Gerard twines his fingers through Frank's and squeezes tight.

"How long's it been?" Frank says.

"Three and a half years." He laughs, a little shakily. "It's better out here. The worst thing was the city, the office, BLI everywhere and those fucking CorpHealth posters in the office. The vending machines. Knowing that it's right there, that I could just ask. I used to go to meetings all the time, like every day almost." A bunch of BLI employees sitting around in a conference room, during lunch break. They'd put "quality circle" on the calendar, and nobody had ever checked. He'd started going less often after a while, and now he wonders for the first time in months how the rest of them are doing. "Now I just... it's easier, mostly. It's different, I've got other things to do, and there's less to remind me. But sometimes..."

"Yeah," Frank says, and pulls him close. "‘S'okay," he says, and presses his mouth to Gerard's jaw.

* * *

 _"Hey," Ray says, looking up from the mattress and peering at Mikey's dark silhouette in the office doorway. "They okay?"_

 _Mikey nods. "Max is staying out there with Gee," he says, then locks the door and just stands there, listless, fingers curled around the knob._

 _"C'mere." Ray holds up the corner of the unzipped sleeping bag they're using as a blanket. Mikey goes, dropping heavily to his knees on the mattress, and Ray tugs him under covers. It's warm under there with the two of them, though not as warm as it would be with three. Mikey presses awkwardly against Ray's chest, and he feels even more than usual like he's made out of a pile of pointy sticks._

 _Ray really wants Mikey to fucking sleep because he fucking needs it. They both do. They need a lot of things. Ray sighs, and helps tug Mikey out of his jacket and t-shirt, then unbuckles his pants for him and shoves them off with his hands and feet, letting them clump up at the bottom of the mattress._

 _Tired as they are, the smell of Mikey's skin and the feeling it against Ray's is still enough to send shivers up Ray's spine. He doesn't want to push, though, so he just presses against Mikey and listens to his heartbeat. For a minute he thinks Mikey's passing out from sheer exhaustion, but then Mikey shifts, slipping his hand into Ray's boxers, cupping Ray's dick._

 _"Mikey..." Ray breathes, and slides his own hand down to reach into Mikey's briefs. Mikey's not hard, but he mumbles something against Ray's neck and moves so the angle is better for Ray to stroke him._

 _Ray misses Pony, misses hir quick laugh and playful encouragements, the dark, liquid look in hir eyes, but this — just him and Mikey, alone together — this is rare, Ray thinks, and precious. He kisses Mikey's forehead, and Mikey kisses Ray's collarbone, then lifts his face so their lips meet, awkwardly at first in the dark, then pressing warmly, Mikey's tongue darting out between Ray's lips._

 _Most nights when they sleep, Mikey shoves his face into Pony's neck and tucks his toes under Ray's ankles. Mornings, Ray gets up first and makes breakfast with Max, smiling gently at Pony and Mikey when they finally roll out of the office, cheeks flushed and hair spectacularly askew. Sometimes they don't emerge at all, and Ray goes back to find them, and they both reach out and grab his wrists and pull him back to bed. Other times they wind up over at Pony's place, the three of them trying to keep their giggles down, with Doc in the next room playing music loud so he doesn't have to hear them. Ray's good at sharing, and they all fit together well._

 _Tonight, Pony's both there and not-there, hir shadow hovering over them. When Ray closes his eyes he feels a faint echo of might-have-been, of the time before they came to the desert, but when he opens them and sees the curve of Mikey's shoulder, the shadow of his jaw, the diner office around them, he remembers what_ is _. Pony's out there somewhere, and Mikey's worried for hir, though he won't say it aloud. He can tell by the tension in Mikey's body and the soft noises he makes against Ray's mouth. Ray rolls and presses himself against Mikey, stretching out along his length and fumbling their underwear out of the way so that their dicks are nestled up close together, and wraps his hand and Mikey's around both of them._

 _"Yeah," Mikey murmurs, tilting his hips. "Mmm, ‘sgood."_

 _It's a slow build, and Ray feels his orgasm coming from a long way away, far enough away for him to pull back and make sure Mikey's there too. Mikey's eyes are screwed shut, his breath coming in little gasps, and he says, "Don't stop," as Ray adjusts his grip and brings him over the edge, then follows right behind him._

* * *

"Listen, dustangel," comes Doc's voice, his growl tinny through the half-busted receiver of her phone, "you've got nerve and sense. Not convinced those boys have half as much of either. Be careful."

LynZ chuckles warmly. "You think I'm some kind of stupid? Part of it is keeping them on course so they don't bring us all down with them. That, and I'm fond. Need some of that fuck it and take it attitude. No fear noway, 'tween my girls and Pony we'll do. Just keep Max tight, don't need her getting rounded up and dumped in some BLI orphan factory. Tell her Pony'll be fine and we'll have hir back to her soon," she says gently, glancing up as Gerard staggers into the kitchen like some kind of spaced-out zombie. She jerks her chin at the press-pot on the counter, still half-full and hot. "And look, there's the devil speakin'. Kisses. Keep an eye on my zones and I'll get the data you're after, you fucking wavewhore."

She drops the call and smirks as Gerard upsets the press and gets a clump of grounds in his mug. He doesn't seem to care, though, and sits at the prep table, burying his face in the mug and making a truly pathetic grunt of gratitude.

"It's usually more effective as a beverage than a steam cleanser," LynZ observes. "You ready to head downtown soon? I can take you to meet Keiko at the dup shop, get your fucking comic printed, then we can go looking for some protection for you and your boys."

"Mmm, yeah," Gerard says. "Just let me finish this?"

"Don't be too long about it. And make sure you bring as much of Kobra's contraband as you can. The rarer the better. Better grab the plans for Max's jammer/broadcaster too. What you want's gonna cost you dear."

His lips thin a little, and he nods, taking a long slug of coffee. "Yeah. I have some trade stuff. Give me fifteen minutes."

"Out front in ten. Full gear." LynZ grins and tops off his mug. "You can bring that with you, but watch steady. You break my fucking Snoopy mug and I end you." She eyes him and shoves a protein bar in his fist. The guy is looking pretty pale and wan for someone who's been living out in the fucking desert for so long. "Pick you up some rations, too."

They meet out front, and Gerard's clutching a messenger bag and a sheaf of comic pages tucked inside a Lisa Frank folder. LynZ marvels a little at his obliviousness — or is it bravery? The thing has a fucking purple unicorn on the cover. He's careful to hold it away from the coffee, though, which is sloshing out of his mug as he hurries to keep up. "How'd you get this, anyhow? Someone set up a Starbucks tent in the Springs or what?"

LynZ crooks a grin at him and takes a considering sip from her own mug. She'd roasted the batch light, and the flavors are bright and acidic. "Fucking Starbucks, now there's a company I didn't mind see go down under BLI. No, there's a women-run coffee farm down in Nicaragua, I spent a summer there on an internship in college. I wanted to save the world back then, you know?" Gerard looks impressed. "Fuck if it matters anymore. Anyway, I stayed in touch with them and now we're one of the crews contracted to bring beans over the border every so often. Get paid mostly in trade but we live like fucking princesses."

LynZ squints at the street signs, noting the new tags overlaying older, faded symbols. There's been a lot of activity on the main drag this week, and none of it good. "That was how I got started on the crash circuit. Went down to Nica to ride out the riots breaking out in LA, and they taught me to fix and mod my own motorbike, broker a solid deal, and bust up anyone who stood in my way. Came back and LA was Battery City. Ran with a band for a while there with Kitty and the Doc and... another guy, but we couldn't take the pigs constantly in our shit. Then things went all to hell, and me and Kitty and Doc came out to the dust, and the road's been home since then."

She doesn't know why she's telling him this shit. Bits of it are like poking at a gaping wound, but somehow she can't stop doing it. Something about Gerard's open expression makes her want to spill her life story. She shrugs, and decides to just run with it. "I make a living on the circuit now, but I do it for them." She waves behind them toward the Queen of Hearts. "We've got pride and family and independence and no fucking corporate fuckers can do shit to us. Won't fucking let 'em."

They hit the main strip, and LynZ buys them each an empanada from an unfamiliar older woman and her daughter, exchanging a few phrases in Spanish. LynZ smiles at them warmly and makes a mental note to check if they have Springer circuit contacts. Gerard says "gracias" and the two women both laugh at his first taste, hissing breath over the too-hot pastry and groaning appreciatively as the first spicy morsel hits his tongue.

"Um, yeah, shit. Fresh chicken! The fuck," Gerard says, wiping his chin with his hand and licking the last smears of grease off. He starts coughing, turning some interesting blotchy shades of red, and LynZ is about to make fun of him until she feels the telltale tickle in the back of her throat.

"You need a minute there, baby?" LynZ says, tugging at the knot on the back of his bandanna. "Don't leave your rebreather off too long out here, heard a wave says we're due another acidwash."

"Fuck, let's get back before it starts. Where the fuck is this copy place?" Gerard says, fumbling the tube into his mouth and tugging the fabric back up over his nose.

"Not far. Just keep your fucking mouth shut and let me handle the trade," she says, pitching her voice in the _don't fuck with me_ register as they hit the main drag. She pulls her mask down and jerks her chin across the makeshift market.

They thread through the stalls until they come to the tent where Keiko's got her dup shop. They duck under a tent-rope and into a riot of color, photocopies pinned to the canvas walls of the tent, piles of zines on the table, the smell of toner and ink thick in the air. LynZ says hello, and Keiko says hey and grins back her — she's dyed her hair pink since last time LynZ saw her, and it looks fucking amazing — then shifts her gaze to Gerard and his unicorn portfolio. She raises an eyebrow.

"We're looking to print up some pages," LynZ says, tilting her head at Gerard until he catches on and hands the folder over to Keiko, who opens it and starts paging through Gerard's comic.

"These are good. You want them in color? Cost dear, but shame to lose this," she says, pausing to admire a splash page of the Trans Am cruising across the desert in prismacolor scribbles and absurd ink wash.

"Thanks," Gerard mumbles, twisting his fingers in the cuff of his sleeve. "Um, I want color? But maybe some in black and white, too. I've got some cool shit to trade?" he says hopefully, skimming his eyes over the photocopies of photographs and protest art and hand-drawn posters for music and events that are taped up everywhere.

The woman makes a test copy of the splash page. It's a little streaky, and she tries a couple more times until LynZ rolls her eyes significantly at Gerard and he admits he can live with it under the circumstances. She tacks the test page up behind the bigger of the two copiers and LynZ steps in to haggles good-naturedly with her over the price. She keeps an eye on Gerard, who's tuned them out and is inspecting the posters and pamphlets scattered on a table display, but he's not going anywhere. They reach a deal, and LynZ has to get Gerard's attention to make him hand over the stick drive. He's utterly transfixed by a block print of an intricate dragon curling round a giant dome-covered city, like a snowglobe, and staring menacingly down at it.

"You like it?" the woman asks after she sets the huge copier to printing. "It's one of mine," she admits diffidently, running a hand through her shock of hair.

"It's fucking incredible. How did you get this kind of detail? The whitespace in the dome really brings it out. What's this mean?" Gerard points at the kanji running down along the right edge in red.

"Something my dad used to say," she says. "About... strength, and will, kind of. There isn't a good translation."

"It's awesome," Gerard says, grinning shyly at her. LynZ thinks he looks like a goon half the time, but there's something weirdly charismatic about his awkward intensity. "Really. It's like political and gorgeous and kind of a giant fuck you, if you know what you're looking at or who to ask. That's what I'm doing, or trying to. Um, LynZ will kill me for this, but I'm Gerard, by the way."

She nods seriously. "I know. I'm Keiko. If I had any sense I'd have turned you away the minute I saw your face. Dracs are through here every few days." She bends under one of the tables and comes out with a sheaf of papers and dumps them in front of him.

Gerard looks at the top sheet and blanches. It's a wanted poster with his face behind a giant X. LynZ's seen them around already, so she just shrugs. "You're known, Killjoy," Keiko says. "Be careful. But your art is fucking cool. You keep bringing me the shiny, I'll keep it running for you."

They chat some more about art and LynZ watches the copier spit out prints. She wonders whether he's thought about distribution, or whether he thinks they'll just get out there by magic, but when the prints are done Keiko actually offers to take a stack and give them to customers, so maybe it won't be too much of a pain in the ass after all. Gerard grins at her and stows the rest of the finished copies in his bag. Keiko hugs him, then rips down the dragon poster and presses it into his hands. Trust fucking Gerard to have won a new fan the first place he walks into.

They duck through one tent full of secondhand clothing into another one selling boots and knives and canteens. There's another doorway at the back, with a really huge guy in a leather jacket standing in front of it, glowering ominously with his arms crossed in front of him.

"Hey there, pussycat," LynZ says, and slugs him on the arm. "How's business?"

"Lookin' up," he says.

"Ronnie, this is Party Poison. He's with me." She indicates Gerard, who for once is standing with his mouth shut and not doing anything weird. Ronnie steps aside and lets them pass. The room out back is built of cinderblocks, lit by a flickering fluorescent tube, and piled with weapons. They've got any kind of handgun you might want, and a row of rifles and shotguns against the wall, but LynZ immediately turns to the rayguns.

"Hey," Gerard says awkwardly to the guy fondling a sawed-off behind a folding table piled with ammo and knives. LynZ kicks him and presses a white raygun into his hands. He stares down at it cradled in his palms, tilting it a little to see the liquid sloshing in the fuel cell, brows drawn together in a frown.

"So I looked into it," LynZ murmurs, picking an identical one up and hefting it consideringly. "These are what they're issuing the dracs now. Stun or lethal burn, enough charge on it to take down a platoon if they all stand still for you, and it'll take recharge cartridges if you need more. Illegal as shit if you get caught with it, but fucktons better than any patchjob for accuracy and range. You know how to use one of these, it's the best protection you'll get. But you better fucking mean it, because if the dracs catch you with it they won't be messing around."

Gerard stares at the gun for a moment, considering. He rubs a thumb over the shiny plastic, and LynZ can just tell he's gauging how well it'll hold a coat of spraypaint. The guy is so predictable. He catches the vendor's eye and sets the gun on top of a stack of shotgun shells. "I'll take four."

LynZ doesn't know this guy, and doesn't much like his attitude as he looks Gerard up and down from under his cowboy hat and says, "Four, huh. You gonna wipe me out like that you better make it worth my while. Drac-issue don't come easy."

Gerard doesn't respond, but he sticks his hand in his pack and pulls out Mikey's netbook, no hesitation. LynZ's eyes widen, and she blurts, "Are you sure?" before she can stop herself. Cowboy Hat's gaze flickers to her and back to Gerard, speculatively. Shit.

"Yeah, we talked it over this morning. Too easy to trace, you know? We've still got the drives, and we'll work on other trade," Gerard says grimly, and his hand tightens on the ream of comic pages. He turns back to Cowboy Hat, and there's nothing soft or vulnerable about him now. "Four. And a case of cells. I also need a new charge for a powerglove, something in the A45 line will do." He meets the guy's eyes levelly, and LynZ steps back and leaves him to it.

They leave the netbook behind, replaced in Gerard's satchel by four wrapped parcels tucked neatly under the printed comics. LynZ scans the market, checking for surveillance or obvious plainclothes patrols.

She leaves Gerard to dig around in some clothes in a resale tent while she checks in with the Lopez sisters. They give her a printout of the area between Springs and Bat City. It's full of warning zones, known traps, and X's where queens have been picked up or dusted by patrols. LynZ's pulse speeds up just looking at it — it's like a fucking battlefield, worse every day.

She glances up at Maria and Carmen, and their usually smiling faces are sober and grim. They've been right in the middle of the shit down here, and they've lost a lot of business and had to take bigger risks for what's left. Plus they hear every piece of bad news that comes through, before they mark it on the map. No wonder they're fucking worried.

"You got extra copies? Me and my crew'll make sure this gets spread round, get it out to all the crash queens," she says. She doesn't have to mention that the crash queens will keep an eye on the Lopez sisters in return; they always do.

She's tucking the page into her back pocket and turning back toward the corner stall where she'd parked Gerard, but his stupid bleached hair is nowhere to be seen. Fuck. She wends her way past a motorgang chatting up the elderly Zhaos who are serving up heaping bowls of lo-mein. Through their gruff laughter she hears a familiar, sneering voice — even if she hasn't heard it in years, she's not gonna forget it — and an answering, even higher voice raised in alarm.

Her blood runs cold. Fuck. She darts past the gang and into the cook tent, hiding behind the cauldron of egg drop soup and craning her neck to see what the fuck is happening.

There's Gerard, his rebreather hanging loose around his neck, his unwashed hair sticking out everywhere, and a drac cuff round one wrist. He's struggling against a tall drac in a white uniform, eyes wide and frantic. LynZ sees his free hand drop to his satchel as the drac roughs him to his knees, and then the drac turns around and she makes out his face, his stupid spiked hair, all too familiar. Jimmy. Fuck, that's just not even fucking fair.

She pushes the knot of rage aside, tries to move without thinking, just grabs a shovel, digs it into the charcoal under the grill, and flings everything toward the walls of the tent. The dry heat trumps the fireproofing, and the canvas catches fire.

The tent city erupts in pandemonium, shouting and screaming at the fire, and LynZ digs her toes in and charges forward through the crowd, dodging the frightened gang and slamming the shovel across the drac's back. Gerard struggles to his feet as she grabs the back of his shirt, hauling him up and away.

Gerard's coughing a lot, and the drac — fucking _Jimmy_ , she swears under her breath — is kind of buried in the crowd. She risks a glance back and sees that the burning tent has been torn down, most of the flames being stomped out and drowned with the egg drop soup and the motorgang's boots.

"Fuck, you shitheaded _asshole_ ," she hisses, grabbing the rebreather and shoving it into Gerard's utterly incompetent mouth. "You could have fucking blown it. Fuck, you are helping me pay the Zhao's back for their fucking tent." She hauls him around the corner and leads him pelting down the street for cover.

* * *

"You want to practice?" Ray says.

Mikey hugs his knees tighter and shrugs. Pony's still dozing, and he's torn between wanting to be there when ze wakes up, and wanting to do something. He feels hot and itchy under his skin, and half wishes he'd gone with Gerard and LynZ, just to be moving.

"Come on," Ray says, and nudges him with annoying persistence until he gets up.

It helps. The weight of the bass over his shoulder, the throb of the music, matching his notes to Ray's, it helps him clear his mind. He concentrates on making his fingers move how he needs them to, holding the rhythm as tight as he can.

He looks up after a while to find Pony leaning on the doorjamb. "Sounding good," ze says. Ze's wearing a pair of loose track pants and resting hir weight on hir good leg. Mikey quickly puts down his guitar and goes to hir. Ze reaches out and slings an arm round his shoulder, and they hug for a long moment. Mikey tucks his nose against hir neck. Ze smells of dust and yesterday's sweat.

"Hey, how are you feeling? Want to sit down?" Ray says, behind Mikey's shoulder, and Mikey can hear him pulling a chair away from the wall.

"I'm good," Pony says, and doesn't go anywhere. Mikey's still holding on, his face hidden against hir shoulder. He realizes he's gripping hir kind of hard and makes himself relax his grip on hir waist. "Hey, Mikeyway," Pony murmurs into his hair. "You good?"

"Yeah," he says, and lets go, straightening his face before he pulls away. Ze looks a little skeptical, but Ray changes the subject by asking who wants coffee, and god, Mikey really wants coffee. "Yeah," he says again, more definite this time. "Coffee'd be good."

"Fuck yeah," Pony says. "LynZ's got the good stuff."

"Should you be — I mean, do you need to take more pills or something? Should you be having coffee with that?" Ray asks.

"Don't you fret, baby," Pony says. "Make me some breakfast and I'll take ‘em with that."

Ze limps the whole way to the kitchen, but acts as if it's nothing. Ray finds beans and slightly stale tortillas and even some powdered eggs, which he scrambles and serves up. Looks like the Skeleton Crew do alright for themselves. Pony's right, their coffee's amazing, too. Ze insists on making it hirself, telling Ray to stop fucking babying hir. But ze knocks back a couple of pills with the first cup, and sits a little awkwardly, favoring one side as ze eats, and afterwards declares that ze's taking the day off.

Frank and Jamia come and drag Ray away to look at something Kitty's doing, but Mikey sticks around in the courtyard, wanting to stay close to Pony. Ze's lounging on one of the poolside deck chairs, eyes hidden behind enormous sunglasses, flipping through a pile of magazines.

He can't stop feeling itchy. He can feel it between his shoulderblades, right where he can't reach it, like there's something clinging there and digging its claws in. He wants to punch something, someone. He settles for punching the air, working through the moves Pony taught him, kicking out at an invisible enemy that looks, in his mind, like one of the draculoids from Gee's comic. From time to time he can feel Pony watching him over the top of hir magazine, but he just keeps going.

The air gets sharp and starts to burn after a while, and they retreat to the lobby, Pony leaning on Mikey without complaining for once, and close the door behind them. Mikey helps Pony settle hirself on one of the ugly couches they've got in there, and ze lounges across it, propped on one elbow. Mikey leans over to kiss hir, pressing his face into hir hair for a moment, breathing in the sweaty warm scent of hir scalp.

"Well, keep goin'," ze says. "I was enjoying the view." Mikey smirks, but drops back into his fighting stance. The itchy feeling's still there, but it's better than it was.

Gee and LynZ get back after lunch. LynZ just storms through the lobby without a word. Gerard's tense and unhappy. He stands there for a moment with his shoulders slumped, drops his bag on the ground, and pulls off the mask that covered his mouth. Mikey shoots him a look, and Gerard shrugs back, frowning. _Trouble_. "Band meeting," he says, out loud.

They meet in the practice room. Ray drags an armchair in from across the hall and fusses at Pony until ze heaves a sigh and lowers hirself into it. Mikey perches on one arm of the chair, Ray on the other. Frank and Kitty come in together, talking animatedly about chemicals and fuses, and sit on the floor. LynZ comes in behind them. Mikey doesn't like the look on her face as she leans against the doorframe, jamming her thumbs in her belt. She's staring fixedly at Gerard, and Mikey looks from one of them to the other, feeling a rush of protective anger on Gee's behalf.

Gerard looks... well. Mikey hasn't seen that particular tense slope to his shoulders for years. He's hiding behind his hair, but then he pushes it back, catches Mikey's eye for a moment, and sets his jaw. He reaches into his bag without preamble or his usual speechifying and pulls out a raygun.

Mikey had known this was coming, but it's still surreal, seeing his brother holding a deadly weapon in all seriousness. All he can think of is all those times Mikey stomped him at Duck Hunt, or the times they'd gone paintballing and Gerard always ended up covered in paint and laughing. This is something totally different — the gun looks stark and menacing in Gerard's fist, the weight of it drawing down the muscles in his forearm and tightening his shoulders. He's holding it a little awkwardly, slightly away from his hip, and he seems to be looking at anything but the gun.

"Here," he says, quietly, when everyone's stopped their conversations and turned to stare. He holds the gun out to Mikey, angled so the barrel's pointing at the floor. Mikey stares at him for a moment, a little frozen, until he feels Pony's hand on his elbow, pushing him gently off the armchair. Mikey steps forward and takes the gun, hefting it. It's heavier than it looks.

"I got four. They're drac issue, but I don't think they're traceable. We've seen what they can do," he says, and glances at Pony. Pony just gives a wry smile and lets Ray rub hir shoulders. "There's a stun setting too. We don't have to... I mean, we don't have to use them if we don't need to. But if we need to..." he trails off, and they all sit for a moment looking at the gun in Mikey's hand.

"Some party," Jamia says from the doorway, coming in with Alicia and chucking Frank on the shoulder as she passes.

"So there's one for me, right? Let me see," Frank says, reaching into Gerard's bag and grabbing one. He takes aim at an imaginary target just behind Gerard. "Pew pew!"

"Fucking be careful, Frank!" Gerard squeaks, waving his hands around. "Jesus."

"There's a safety — isn't there?" Frank turns the gun around in his hand, looking for the switch.

LynZ pushes off from the wall and reaches him in two steps, grasping his wrist and holding his hand with the raygun out to one side. "Motherfucker," she says through gritted teeth. "You are all going to get yourselves fucking killed. Fucking _grow up_." She takes the gun from him.

"We're going to need your help, LynZ," Gerard says, firmly, and LynZ turns to him, her eyes blazing, but Gerard just holds her gaze and then says, "You're right. We don't know what we're doing here, and you do." It's an apology, Mikey realizes, and wonders what happened on their shopping trip. "Please," Gerard adds.

LynZ sighs. "You do what you're told, you _all_ do what you're told, I'll try to show you how not to get your asses dusted."

Gerard nods. "Guys?" he says, looking around, until they all nod and say yeah. LynZ gives Frank his gun back with a quick glare, and Gerard hands one to Ray and takes one for himself. Then he turns back to LynZ and says, "Okay, what do we need to know?"

* * *

Pony sits in on the lesson. LynZ runs the boys through the safety drill, shows them how to read the meter, how to to load a new charge, how to switch from stun to full power. It's a lot harder than ze thought to just sit back and watch someone else teaching hir boys the ropes, though ze has to admit LynZ's got a reserve of patience and encouragement for the role that Pony could not dredge up if you paid hir.

Ray takes to it best of all of them, steady and attentive, but all of them eventually get to the point where they can knock a can off the stacks of cinderblocks the girls have set up, and are fast enough on the draw that they won't get ghosted while they stand around thinking about it. Pony watches and plays peanut gallery as long as ze can, 'til hir hip starts to hurt like a motherfucker and enough hours have passed that ze can take another dose.

Ze limps back to the dim room ze's been staying in, finds hir pills, and lies down until they kick in. It's good to be inside where it's dark and quiet, just for a little while. Ze loves them all, but ze hurts, and they're exhausting. Ze wonders how Max is doing with Doc, whether they're getting shit done or shouting at each other or both. Probably both. The ancient radio/alarm clock on the bed stand doesn't work, or ze'd tune in to WKIL to hear them. Shit. They're probably going to end up staying here a while, now, so Alicia can keep an eye on hir. Max'll be mad. Pony'll have to make it up to her somehow.

The drugs kick in eventually, and Pony stretches, feeling the ache and burn of hir wound as a nagging buzz rather than the throbbing pain it was earlier. Hir mouth is dry. Ze rolls over and gets up, a little cautiously, and heads for the kitchen.

Sounds like target practice is over for now. There's no more zap-and-crackle from the courtyard, and when ze gets to the kitchen ze can hear voices in there. It's LynZ and Kitty, and there's something about the low, urgent tone of the conversation that makes Pony pause with hir hand outstretched towards the door.

"Are you sure?"

"It was definitely him, Kitty," LynZ's voice is unmistakable. "Look, I know you hoped, we all hoped he wouldn't, but it was."

Pony's ma raised hir better than to eavesdrop, and having heard this much ze knocks gently at the open door to announce hir presence. They both look up, startled, but Kitty smiles and LynZ visibly relaxes, hooking a foot through a stool and kicking it out from the table, waving at Pony to join them.

"He did it after all, the fucker," she says bitterly, shoving her glass of sun tea at Pony. Pony raises an eyebrow at her. "Jimmy," she explains. Pony nods; ze's heard enough to know at least half that back-story.

"Why're you surprised?" ze asks. Doc'd always said he'd gone over to the other side, the few times it'd been late enough and Doc'd been wasted enough to talk about it.

LynZ shrugs, tensely. "I just hoped. Well, I guess we can stop checking the fucking death rolls and the prison lists."

"His choice in a life full of too few," Pony says, and LynZ glares at hir, sucking an angry breath in. "Nobody came through without doing some shit they'd rather not have. He's alive, at least."

"He fucking shouldn't be. Doc —" But she clamps down on whatever she was going to say. Doc lost the use of his fucking legs. Pony knows where she was going with that, but it's better that she doesn't.

"Fuck," Kitty says, and throws her spoon at the sink. It misses and clatters to the floor. "That motherfucker. Think he's made us?"

LynZ shakes her head. "I don't think he recognized me, and we'd've heard if he'd been in the Springs long. The circuit's tight-lipped enough he won't have heard our names — if he had I don't think we'd be here now. We want to keep a close fucking eye, though. Think we can get Jamia to tell Maria and Carmen, get the word out?"

Kitty sighs. "Yeah. We'd better keep a low profile for a bit." She smirks grimly at LynZ and tugs her dark ponytail. "Might be time for that bleach job you were considering."

LynZ grimaces and rubs at her temples. "Yeah. Fuck. I'd better tell the Doc, too. Pony, you think you'll be good to head back tomorrow? It's sooner than I'd like, and Alicia'll probably have something to say about it, but 'd rather not trust the waves on this one. We can take the van." Pony shrugs. Ze's not gonna be skating back under hir own power, noway.

"Alright then," LynZ says, decisive. "We've got a job just north of the station we can move up, swing by Doc's first. Drop the Killjoys, too, let you and Doc keep an eye on them at least for a few days until the dust settles. Jimmy'll be watching for Gerard."

Pony squeezes LynZ's hand. "Thanks, babe," ze says.

"Anyhow, they stay here much longer we're gonna run out of fucking coffee," LynZ says. "Fucking addicts."

"Speaking of..." Pony says, trailing off with a hopeful look at the coffee pot.

Kitty laughs, and gets up to start the brew.

They head back to Doc's the next afternoon. The burn on Pony's hip starts to itch like a motherfucker as it heals. Alicia checks the dressing and replaces it before they leave, and LynZ loans Pony a pair of sweat pants that hang loose and don't rub on it too much. Ze wears them back to the station, taking shotgun in LynZ's van as they convoy with the Killjoys in their ‘bird, but the first chance ze gets, ze's gonna change into something of hir own. LynZ style ain't Pony style, noway.

Soon as they get there, Max comes running, calling Pony names for not taking her to the Springs and then for getting shot, as if ze did it on purpose. Pony fends her off, laughing. "Hands off, crashbaby," ze says. "‘Less you want Alicia coming down on your ass for messin' with her dressing. Hey, you wanna see something funny?"

"What?" says Max.

"Party Poison with a raygun." Pony laughs at Max's wide-eyed response, then shepherds them all round back for a demo, so LynZ can go in and talk to Doc alone.

The next week or so's enough to drive Pony to distraction, cooped up with nowhere to go. Ze can't skate, can't ride without hir hip screaming at hir, and they're all staying off the roads and away from the Springs for a while, ‘least until the dracs stop buzzing quite so hard. Back and forth between Doc's and the diner, no further.

They stick close to home, making the most of the downtime. Pony makes it hir business to make sure the Killjoys know how to handle those rayguns. Max too; she's old enough to take it seriously, and she might need it sooner than Pony likes to think about. They set up a firing range set up out back of the diner, and Pony and Gerard both ride everyone to make sure they go out there at least once a day and get friendly with their weapons. Mikey and Frank spend a lot of time playing guitar, but Ray splits practice time with working on his car. Pony approves; last thing they want is for it to let them down when they need it, and chances are they'll need it soon. ‘Sides, watching Ray work with his hands is hardly a hardship. Gerard's been working on more songs, pulling together scraps of lyrics from his notebooks and cornering Ray at odd hours to turn them into music. He's making more comics, too, and when LynZ comes by to check in, he hands off a pile of papers to her to pass on to Keiko.

"How're you getting them out from there?" Pony asks. Ze's not just curious; ze's itching to get back on hir skates, a bundle of zines under hir arm to drop off wherever ze can.

"Jamia'll hit the next shitswap," LynZ says. "Keiko said she'll keep a stack, too, hand ‘em to whoever comes in, and you know everyone goes past Keiko's."

"Got anyone to run the borderzones?" Pony asks. "Cityside, even?"

"Digital," Gerard says. "Keiko's got Pete's details, she's gonna send him a scan."

Pony frowns. Ze doesn't trust the ‘net, doesn't trust it to go through safe and clean without BLI being all over it like flies on shit. Crash queen network'd be aces for this sort of thing.

"Don't you even think about it," LynZ says, throwing a warning look at hir. "You heal up before you even think of running down into the city. I know you too well, baby." She kisses Pony on the cheek, then pulls her helmet on and is off in a cloud of dust.

There's nothing for Pony to do but hang around and look pretty, but ze can do that well enough. If ze can't wear anything tight over hir dressing 'til ze heals, ze's gonna wear something shiny. Ze's got a pile of clothes ze picked up at shitswaps, some ze even brought out from the city way back when, and one day while the boys are out at the firing range ze changes into a sundress, orange with flowers all over it, and a big floppy hat before going out to join them.

Mikey gapes and drops his aim when he sees hir, but Gerard pokes him in the ribs and says, "Come on, four more."

Pony smirks, and leans back against the wall, basking in the heat of the sun on hir bare skin, peeping out flirtatiously from under the brim of hir hat. Mikey turns back reluctantly to the target. Ray doesn't let himself get distracted until he's finished his shots, but when he does he turns to Pony, smiling and flushed and sheened with sweat from the sun.

"Looking good," Pony says, peering down the range at his charred targets, then back to Ray, pointedly letting hir gaze skim down the length of his body.

Ray winks at hir, like a goof, and says, "Looking good yourself."

Mikey's finished his shots at last and he's holstering his raygun, so Pony pushes hirself away from the wall and walks over to them, swinging hir hips, and puts one arm around each of their shoulders. Ze licks hir lips and says, "You boys wanna come inside for a little refreshment?" Ze makes it sound as dirty as ze can, and laughs at Mikey's attempt to hide his wide-eyed response. Ray just laughs an affirmative and presses against hir.

Gerard chokes somewhere off to one side, saying, "Ugh, Jesus."

"I've got your refreshment right here," Frank says, laughing, and flings a water bottle at him. Pony ignores them. Ze's got better things to be doing.

The three of them make it into the diner's office, blinking at the relative darkness, and shut the door behind them. Mikey's got his arm around Pony, kissing hir, one hand sliding up hir thigh under hir skirt towards the edge of Alicia's dressing, but ze says, "nuh uh," and bats him away. Ze's got other plans. Just ‘cause ze's wearing a dress doesn't mean that's the way it's gonna go down. And speaking of going down, hir mouth's been watering since she saw them both out by the range.

Mikey's eyebrows come together in a disappointed frown, but Pony just laughs and drops down on hir knees, pulling hir sunhat off hir head and throwing it aside, then pulls the boys closer by their belt loops and works at getting their pants off.

Mikey and Ray make out while Pony takes turns sucking them off, each one for a while and then the other. Ray loses control much more easily than Mikey does, making high-pitched little noises and cradling hir head with one hand, but ze doesn't let him get too close to the edge — just pulls off and switches over when it seems like he's getting close. He whimpers, and Mikey reaches over, taking over with his hand where Pony left off. Mikey just lets out a low "fuuuuuck" when Pony goes down deep.

This whole kneeling thing starts to make hir wound ache, though, so eventually ze pulls them tumbling down onto the mattress, landing carefully on hir other side. Pony catches Mikey's eye, and Mikey looks at Ray, who's flushed and disheveled, and back at Pony with a little lift of his eyebrow. Ze winks back at him, and goes back down on Ray as Mikey reaches for the lube.

Pony knows how good Mikey's fingers are, and that'd be more than enough to get Ray off, but Ray's got other ideas, and he makes them stop and rearrange themselves so Mikey can fuck him. Mikey fumbles for a condom, pushes into him, and Pony wraps hir hand round the base of Ray's cock and lets him fuck hir mouth in time with Mikey's thrusts. Ray comes with a groan, and Mikey's right behind him, and Pony winds up swallowing half of it and getting the rest on hir face.

Fuck, hir boys. So fucking hot. Ze reaches for hir cock, knows it won't take more than a few strokes and ze'll be coming like a freight train. But Mikey catches hir, pulls himself out of the lethargic flop he'd landed in and kicks hir — okay, nudges hir in the side with his foot.

"Hey," Mikey says. "Hey." He flails for Pony's arm, shifting to make room for hir between him and Ray, pushing hir hand away from hir cock and replacing it with his own. Ray's curled against hir side, loose and relaxed, a mess of hair and wet lips against hir shoulder. One of his hands pushes hir skirt up as high as it'll go and traces across hir belly, then down to meet Mikey's. Ze comes with Mikey's lower lip between hir teeth, not knowing exactly whose hand is responsible.

* * *

Ray starts carrying his guitar everywhere they go, so that he's always ready when Gerard grabs him, wild-eyed and ink-stained, humming snatches of melody he wants turned into songs. They've got a corner at the gas station where they can work while the others shoot at cans out back, and they power through new material most nights they're at the diner, the four of them figuring out as much as they can until their next trip to see Kitty and get the drum parts down.

They've got two more songs mostly done, and a third on the way. Gerard's lyrics are bright and anthemic, full of images from the city and the desert and the airwaves. Ray's pretty sure they're going to make a big impact, when they get their stuff out there.

He talks to Doc and Max one day about recording some of their songs, just so they can get them out on the waves, and Doc hmms and says he'll see what he can manage by way of recording gear, but when Max mentions it to Gerard, he frowns and shakes his head.

"Why not get it out on the radio?" Ray asks.

"It needs to be bigger than that," Gerard says. "We've only got a song or two. If we put them out on the waves now... it'll be fun and all, but it won't make a difference, it'll just be another song, you know? It needs to be..." he waves his hands. "The songs are just a part of it, you know? There's the comics and everything, the kids in the city... it needs to come together more, be one big thing." Ray's got no idea what he means by that, but he remembers what Gerard drew, the comic book heroes on stage, blasting their sounds out to a massive crowd.

"You want to play live?" he says, not even really asking. It's obvious. "A concert?"

Gerard nods his assent. "Yeah, it's more — visceral, you know? Like, fucking real, not just a recording. And it needs to make a splash, something really fucking huge that they can't ignore. Something that'll make a difference."

So Ray stops thinking about how they're going to record, and they get back to writing songs. They're going to need more than two or three if they want to put on a show. All of them pitch in with ideas. The third song comes together as soon as they get back to the Springs. Kitty pounds out a steady beat and Gerard bounces on his toes chanting, "Get up and go!" and Max and Jamia bounce along with him, grinning like mad. Even LynZ looks in on them and nods approvingly, then stays while they work through "Only Hope", her arms crossed in front of her chest and a thoughtful look on her face.

Ray's got some riffs he wants to try out, and he and Frank wind up jamming together even after the others take a break to eat. They've got no idea what it's going to be, but when Gerard hears it after lunch it sends him looking for his notebook, paging through it looking for snatches of phrase, then curling up cross-legged on the floor to find words to match the hard rock beat and screaming guitar solos.

Gerard's still buried in it when Ray goes to bed, but first thing next morning he's there with his notebook in hand, Frank bleary-eyed at his side holding a mug of LynZ's good coffee and rolling his eyes at Ray's disgruntled objections to being dragged out of bed. Gerard ignores them and herds them all into the practice room to work out a completely different song that came to him instead.

They leave the Queen of Hearts after a week of rehearsals with four whole songs, and more on the way. They're buzzing with it, and shout the choruses out as they head back home along Route Guano. Ray bangs his head and laughs as the wind catches his hair, and Max bangs hers alongside him, screaming as loud as anyone over the noise of the car and the highway and the open air.

There's work to do besides the songs: keeping shit running, hitting the swapsites as often as they can for news and trade and to drop off Gerard's comics with whoever'll take them and pass them on. They're careful all the time, watching for patrols. Their faces are pinned to walls and signposts everywhere they go, Xs across their features like someone angry's got at them with a red marker. Ray pulls his hair back in a tight ponytail and wears his bandanna slung loosely around his neck so he can pull it up over his face if he needs to, and others follow suit, trying not to look too much like their posters. There are plenty of dust storms that month, so even the goggles Gerard wears don't seem too out of place.

They're at a shitswap on the far side of the Springs, dropping off a stack of comics, when the guy behind the table looks up sharply at Gerard.

"That's you, Party Poison?" he says, pointing at the cover of the comic.

"Yeah?" Gerard says, cautiously. The guy's big, tattoos on his neck and arms, sleeves cut off his plaid shirt. He's the kind of guy you don't fuck around with.

"I thought your hair'd be red," the guy says.

Gerard shakes his head. "We're not the characters in the comic," he says. "They're based on us, but they're not us, you know?" Ray's heard Gerard's speech about the relationship between the characters and themselves as real people, about physical resonance and personal expression, at least a dozen times, so he just nods along and humors him.

"They sure look like you," the guy says. "Hey, so are you guys really forming a band? My girl said she heard you got one of the Skeleton Crew drumming for you."

Gerard looks quickly at Ray, then at Frank and Mikey. They haven't really been telling everyone that just yet, but guy doesn't look like a BLI stooge or anything to Ray, so Ray answers, "Yeah, that's right."

"Aweshit! Hey, I'm Danny." He puts his hand out and each of them shakes it, then he grabs one of the comics and pulls out a pen and says, "Uh, would you mind... it's for my girl, Mags, no shit, she thinks you guys are the fucking greatest."

Gerard's eyes open wide as he takes the pen and signs the front cover, _Mags — Art is the Weapon! Party Poison xo_ , then hands it off to Mikey. "Wow," he says. "That's... thanks, really, thanks."

The comic goes round to each of them, and Ray signs _Jet Star_ as Danny says, "Look, are you playing anywhere? I know a guy runs a bar in the Springs, I can get you a show there if you want." He takes the pen back from Frank, who's last to sign, and writes on a piece of paper, handing it to Gerard. "That's his place," he says. "Check it out if you want. If you're in with the Skeleton Crew, they'll know it. You let me know if you want to set something up. Shit, my girl's gonna kill me if I tell her I met you guys and didn't talk you into playing the Springs."

"Thanks," says Gerard again, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket. "We'll talk it over."

They wait until they're back in the car, and Frank says, "So are we gonna do it?" Nobody has to ask what he's talking about.

"Maybe," Gerard says, a slow grin covering his face. "Let's talk to Kitty and the others, see what they think."

* * *

LynZ and Alicia park their bikes off the strip and head into Mack's Bar through the side way. It's dark inside, and remarkably busy in spite of the shitty drummer and the guy with a guitar whining his way through some late 90s rock standards from the stage.

The bar is small and crowded, but at least it gets good airflow from the open windows that keeps it just this side of stifling. It's the kind of place the service staff probably used to go to unwind over cheap liquor after long days spent manicuring the golf courses and cleaning up after drunken tourists and business travelers, before. Now, it's a hangout for restless local youngsters looking for a place to drink, fuck, and brawl until they finally grow up and find a fucking use for themselves.

LynZ has seen a lot of talented kids find good crews out of Mack's, picked up by traveling zonerunners looking for kids with some spark in them, but she's also known too many who've piss their lives away here. It's not a place she likes to visit, though she keeps a line open with Mack for news of any likely girl looking to get on the circuit, even if Mack is a creepy bastard.

Alicia takes the lead and they brazen their way straight through a group of young men who are already well on their way to drunk on the bar's weak brew. They're hollering insults and laughter over the music, one or two occasionally trying to provoke the older motorbabies studiously ignoring them from tables in the corner. One dedicated young man wearing Mardi Gras beads and giant sunglasses seems to have made it his mission to heckle the shit out of the guys onstage.

The girl behind the bar looks almost relieved when LynZ asks her to go find Mack, glad to escape the patrons' obnoxious attentions. One of the kids makes a halfhearted attempt to come on to Alicia, who shoots him a look like he's not worth licking the shit from her shoe. His slightly more sober friend obviously recognizes them, whispering urgently into his ear and tugging him away to an empty seat at the other end of the bar. LynZ smirks to herself. It's good to know their reputation precedes them.

"Welcome, ladies! Can I interest you in a vodka straight, you being tough girls can handle a tough drink?" Mack leans over the bar, bestowing a practiced leer on them both.

"You're not talking about that swill you piss out in the back room?" Alicia says, incredulous. "That shit'll turn you blind."

Mack's leer twists into a scowl. "What are you here, for anyway? Larissa says you're lookin' to book a gig. Didn't know you'd gone into the business, Queen Z."

"One time deal. Our girl's drumming with a new outfit, boys getting a lot of buzz along the wires." Mack starts to look interested. "Killjoys," she says. "You've seen the spider, the comic books, the kids must bring that shit around for you."

"Bunch of artist punks? Sounds like a shitty business decision for me, frankly. Why should I bring a squad of troublemakers in here?" He waves a hand at the group of boys who are scuffling into an impromptu mosh pit in front of the stage.

LynZ plants her palms on the greasy bar and leans in to him. "Because these motherfuckers will make you famous. This is gonna be the biggest show you've seen in years. Word is buzzing all over the zones and in the city, too, over these guys. Word will spread and you'll be more than just a daycare, Mack. All the zonerunners and motorbabies will come here first on their way through town, swapping ones and zeros, maps, info on your site. You got any idea the traffic you could see?" She taps her fingers against her lips.

"Traffic, huh. Some familiar faces, Z? Like good ole Jimmy, he'd love to see your Killjoys put on a show," he grins nastily as LynZ tries to school her face, to hide the shock of hearing her old comrade's name falling so casually from those greasy lips. Fuck. Even _Mack_ had recognized Jimmy, heard he had been through Springs in a drac uniform. Fuck.

Alicia grips LynZ's elbow, her sharp nails digging in unforgivingly. The pain is welcome, centering, and Alicia's voice, when she speaks, is fortified with steel. "This is the opportunity a shithole like this sees once in a lifetime. The show's a month from now. We'll send posters around, and our girl Kitty will be by to check your equipment. If I hear even a whisper you're going to invite some... old friends... I will personally report the underaged alcohol and drug abuse, as well as the money you're laundering for the motorgangs. You'll get a fine from BLI, but wait 'til you see what those dustheads will com up with after they see you selling out to the draculoids. Do not fuck with the Skeleton Crew."

Mack's face goes pale, his answer plain to see in the cowardice of his expression. Alicia pulls LynZ away from the bar toward the door before he even has a chance to nod his agreement.

* * *

When the news comes in that they've got the show, the Killjoys decide to celebrate by heading over to spend the day at Doc's. Pony greets them with a smile and a twirl when they arrive. Ze's back on hir skates at last.

Gerard eads inside and buries himself in Doc's record collection "for inspiration", and Ray and Max start going through the piles of electronic junk Doc collects and stores in the old repair shop. Ray loves working with Max. She's so creative, and her and deft little fingers never fail to impress him. In no time flat, she refurbishes two broken subwoofers and starts in on fixing the tape recorder in an old boombox.

"Where did that even come from?" Ray asks, impressed. "It must've been were obsolete when I was your age! Someone's been holding on to some seriously old stuff."

Max grins up at him. "Lots of people trusting analog more than digital out past the zones. They can listen in on the airwaves, sure, but they can't hack this baby," she says. She finishes digging around in the tape deck and tunes the thing to WKIL, humming tunelessly as she uncaps some markers and starts drawing random shit all over it. Ray has to admit it looks a lot cooler than it did to start.

Mikey, Frank and Show Pony come in, sweaty and grinning, from sparring practice. Ray's answering smile is huge, and he suffers himself to be hugged by a very sticky Mikey. "Hey, you," he says into Mikey's collarbone. "How'd Frank do?"

"He may be short but he's got a mean right hook!" Pony laughs. "Little fucker kicked my ass. Fought dirty, though. I could take him next time," ze says, inspecting hir fingernails.

Frank exchanges a high-five with Max. "Told you I could take hir down. Pay up, shrimp," he says smugly, and she rolls her eyes and digs a packet of trail mix out of her pocket, handing it over grumpily.

Ray is affronted. "Frank, are you placing _bets_ with a little girl? Don't you have anything better to do?"

There's a burst of static from the boombox, then "Mamma Mia" starts blasting out of it. They all stop and stare at it. Max starts giggling.

"You have got to be kidding me," Ray says, grinning. "Did Gerard take over the playlist??"

"We should cover this song for the show," Mikey says thoughtfully, and Frank gets up and punches him on the arm. They're scuffling and laughing, Frank singing his off-key falsetto along with the song, until Gerard sticks his head into the shop.

"Guys, you gotta come see this," he says, looking serious, and they all follow him in to see Doc.

"Check it." Doc wheels forward a few inches, clearing a space behind him. He's got an old tube television patched into a network connection somehow. Ray leans over and sees Korse's leering face, framed by two orange news reporters with plastic smiles.

"Why am I looking at this ugly motherfucker?" Frank inquires reasonably.

"Because this motherfucker just got a whole lot bigger, junkbaby."

Doc plugs in a speaker cable, and suddenly the room is filled with the brash voice of the FACT News newsreader. "... under new laws enacted today. Director Korse of Better Living's Department for the Reclamation of Art and Culture discussed the special measures put in place to prevent disruption of the event."

Korse speaks, saying, "There will be zero tolerance for so-called creative acts. D.R.A.C. is authorized to use whatever means necessary to safeguard the awards ceremony, its attendees, and BLI's intellectual property."

The camera cuts back to the newsreader, who continues, "The Better Living Awards will be held at Hollywood's famous BLI Theatre. Secretary of Culture Michelle Sato will be presenting the awards. Sato, who is widely believed to be planning a gubernatorial campaign, will be taking time out from her schedule to rub shoulders with the glittering stars of BLI's entertainment sector. The event will be broadcast live on BLI1 on the 31st of this month."

"Turn that shit off." Mikey leans right over Frank and flicks the off switch.

"Whatever means necessary? Special measures? Nice," Frank says, scowling.

Ray looks at Gerard, who's gone very still. "We have to jam the signal," he says. "That's it. That's when we'll do it."

"The show?" Ray asks, and then Frank yelps in his ear. "What? Motherfucker!" Frank just elbowed him in the ribs and now he's bouncing on top of Gerard for some reason.

"They're worried about disruption. That means it's important to them. And everyone will be watching." Ray can see the wheels turning in Gerard's mind.

"But we have a show at Mack's already. I thought that was going to —"

"Fuck Mack's," Gerard says. "This is — this is huge, this is _it_. We have to do it. Ow, Frank, what the fuck?"

"My birthday!" Frank crows. "The thirty-first. We're having the show on my birthday! And _Halloween_."

"Your birthday's on Halloween?" Ray says, rubbing his ribs.

"We're having the show on my _birthday_."

"That's only two weeks away," Ray says, trying to ignore him. "We've only got four songs. And we're already booked at Mack's for after that, so we'll have to change it..."

"No," says Gerard. "We'll find something in the city. Jesus." He looks stunned for a moment as the scope of it hits him. "Fuck, we need to do it in the city. All those kids. We can get them all to come in... make it fucking huge. Oh my god, we've only got four songs."

"We'll find a venue," Frank says. "We can do it at the Pit! Brian'll do it, it's my _birthday_."

"Yeah, got that, thanks," Gerard says, laughing. "You think we can get the Pit? Fuck, that'd be awesome. Two weeks, fuck," he says, and looks wide-eyed at Ray, who's already trying to think how they can get more songs together in such a short time.

Doc rasps out a laugh. "Look alive, junkbabies. You got some work to do."

* * *

This time last year Frank would have just picked up the phone, without thinking twice. Times fucking change.

It's a pain the ass to get through to Brian, but Frank bugs Doc until Doc patches something through to Pete, who takes about half an hour to hook up something city-side to the Pit, and eventually Doc calls out, "Get in here, assholes," and Frank drags Gee in so they can both sit by a mic that lets them talk live and in real time.

"Frank, you little shit, what sort of trouble are you in now?"

Gerard covers his mouth to try and hold in the snort he can't help making, but Frank just says, "Fuck off, man. See if I call you next time I want to offer you a chance to book the biggest act you'll see all year."

"The Killjoys?"

Frank gapes. "Good guess," he says. "How'd you know?"

"I hear things. Knew you'd found them, at least, and then I started seeing these comic books, heard some rumors... you know how it is. And don't tell me you're not in fucking trouble. I've seen the wanted posters."

"Got mine pinned up over your bed?"

"Over the dart board."

Gerard loses his battle against cracking up, and lets out a muffled snigger. "Hey Brian, I've got Gee here," Frank says. "Gerard, uh, Party Poison. I guess you know who he is."

"Well this is an honor," says Brian drily. "You taking care of Frank alright, Party Poison?"

"Doing my best," Gee says. "He's a handful." Frank punches him. "Ow!" He hits back, and there's a brief scuffle.

"Hey, guys," Brian says, "did I come up on the roof with this Pringle-can for a reason, or is this just a social call?"

"Shit, yeah, get off me," Frank says, pushing Gerard's hands away at least temporarily. "What you said. The Killjoys. We need somewhere to play on the 31st."

"That's, like, two weeks away. You've got to be kidding me." Frank hears keys tapping, knows Brian's going through his bookings. He notices Brian hasn't asked to hear their music, or if they're any good, or anything. "Yeah, we've got Mad Gear that night. Nothing on the 3rd or the 4th, though."

"It has to be the 31st," Gerard says.

"That's Halloween," Brian says.

"We know. It's also the Better Living Awards."

"The... shit. What are you up to?" Frank can tell Brian's starting to get it. He's seen what's going on, he runs one of the better known unlicensed venues in the city, he's in touch with Pete, there's no way he hasn't seen the way the shit's been going lately, art punks vs dracs.

"We're going to jam the signal," Gerard says, dead serious. "This is our chance to get our message out, to really make a difference. We're going to bring them down."

"Jesus fuck," Brian says, and Frank can just see him rubbing the crease in his forehead. "Frank, is this guy for fucking real?"

"Yeah," Frank says, looking at Gee, who's looking back at him and just fucking _glowing_ in that way he does, completely fucking sincere and 200% committed. "Yeah, he's for real. And we're good, I promise. You know I'm fucking critical, but this shit is good. We're good. And we'll pack the Pit out."

"I believe that," Brian says with a laugh. "Place is fucking full of your kids anyway. It's like a preschool exploded or something. I remember when scene kids used to wear black."

"So can we do it?" Frank asks.

"I'll make some calls, okay? I have to talk to Mad Gear, but … yeah, I think we can sort something out."

* * *

Word comes back via Doc, who waves LynZ, who drops a lazy, "Hey, kid, looks like you've got a show city-side," in Gerard's direction when he's refilling his coffee one morning in the Queen of Hearts kitchen.

"Shit," Gerard says, splashing coffee over his fingers then sucking them. "Yeah?"

"All systems go," she says. "You're opening for Mad Gear and the Missile Kid."

"Mad Gear, fucking awesome!" Frank says from the doorway, then comes in and steals Gerard's coffee. "You ever see them play?"

"No. Give that back."

"I saw them," LynZ says, "Before."

"Ray!" Frank shouts, and he's out the door again, taking Gerard's coffee mug with him. "Mikey! Max!"

LynZ smiles. "Max'll be jazzed. Kid loves Mad Gear." She pours the last of the coffee into a fresh mug and hands it to Gerard. "From what I hear, you're gonna be the main event no matter what the billing says. Better watch out. Shit's gonna get ugly."

He knows. He fucking knows. It's a risk, a huge risk, but they've come this far and they can't just let the opportunity slip past them. All he can do is make sure it works, make sure everything's covered. He nods. "I know. Hey, you're coming, right?"

LynZ shakes her head. "City's a little warm these days. ‘Sides, that's not my scene anymore."

"Oh." He's disappointed. "I thought you'd want to see Kitty play."

"I've seen Kitty play plenty, dustbaby. I know she'll be good. Jamia'll be there, though."

It doesn't seem right. He'd kind of assumed all the Skeleton Crew would be there, but LynZ's got that closed look on her face that means she doesn't want to talk about it, so he lets it drop for now. He's got shit to do, anyway.

His mind's been running round in circles, like a hamster on a wheel, thinking through all the shit they need — publicity, transportation, tech, signal, security, firepower, so many fucking things that the music seems to get pushed aside, so he has to drag it back on purpose for rehearsals. He knows Ray's keeping lists, and they're in touch with Pete every couple of days, but he can't stop worrying about it all.

It's not that he doesn't know how to delegate. It's just that... alright, maybe he doesn't know how to delegate. But it's his responsibility, and he can't just let it drop. Each and every one of them, from his own brother to all those kids who'll be at the show, they're all going to be there because of _his_ crazy ideas, and he's gotta get this right.

And shit, he's still meant to be working on songs. They've got a couple more roughed out but nothing's coming together properly because they're spending all their time doing other things. He's hardly had a chance to get away and crack open his notebook since they set a date for the show. He's got a moment now, though, so he settles in the courtyard and pulls his sunglasses on against the glare of the sun on the paper.

The words in his head are choppy and disjointed. _Talking with a laser beam_ , he writes, then doodles a raygun. He can hear the song Ray and Frank have been working on, and he's trying to figure out what it says. Something tough... it's a fighting song, he thinks.

 _Are you ready for a firefight? Nobody's leaving this place alive tonight_. He waits, but that's all there is. The more he tries to write it, the less it wants to come. Instead he just keeps thinking how fucking crazy it is that they're taking on BLI. He can't believe they're fucking doing it. The Killjoy circuit, for real. He gives up, closes his notebook, and goes to check in with Ray and Max about jamming the transmission.

"You're doing it wrong," Max says as Gerard opens the door. He tries to hide a smile, then decides not to bother. He can't believe how awesome Max is, and seeing her boss Ray around is beyond adorable. Ray's used to it, and everyone's used to the sound of their bickering. It's a comfortable sound, Gerard thinks.

"Hey," he says, as the two of them look up from the schematics they've got spread out on the table.

"Hey, Gee," says Max. "Ray's being an idiot."

"Max is being a bossy-britches," Ray says, and grabs the pencil from her hand.

"Bossy-britches?" Max says, indignantly. "Who even _says_ that? Geez. You have to step it down here." She points at the paper. Ray rolls his eyes and makes a note.

"How's it going?" Gerard says.

"Good," Ray replies. "We just got off a call with Pete. He's got his end figured out. If we can get an antenna up on the roof and transmit to him, he can splice it into the BLI1 feed. We just need to figure out the layout of the club, make sure we can get in early and run some cable. Max is going to do sound for the show, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Max says. "Ray said I had to ask you first, so can I?"

"You know how — no, never mind, of course you do," Gerard says. "Yeah, of course you can. Fuck, I didn't even think of that." He wonders what else he's missing, what other things he doesn't know about playing a live show. He's vaguely aware that bands have, like, techs and roadies and stuff. "Do we need, like..." he waves his hands. "Stuff?"

"What sort of stuff?" Ray asks.

"Um, a mixing deck?"

"Brian's got one," Ray says, patiently. "Already checked. And we can borrow amps and speakers, and Pete's getting us a couple of laptops we can loop in for whatever else we need. Do you want to see?" he says, and pushes over the plans so Gerard can take a look.

He leans over, and tries to understand the boxes and arrows and weird arcane symbols, but they don't make much sense. "Looks great!" he says. Max snorts and takes the plans back.

"Hey," says Ray, "You wanna work on those songs tonight?"

"Yeah." Gerard rubs his face, and tries not to sigh out loud. "Yeah, we'd better. I'm gonna go see what the others are up to."

Frank's with Jamia and Kitty in the courtyard, sitting on the ground under the one big tree, the one with LynZ's metal sculpture things hanging from its branches. Gerard drops down behind Frank, puts his arms around him, and buries his nose in Frank's hair. "Hey," he says, kind of muffled.

"Hey," says Frank, twisting round to catch his mouth and kiss him hello. "What are you going to wear for Halloween?"

"Uh... just this?" Gerard says. He's not that big on Halloween, hasn't done it since he was a kid and used to dress up as a vampire every year. It's not like it's really a big thing in the City, and BLI don't exactly encourage it. He's just kind of let it pass by, lately.

"No way," says Frank. "You _have_ to. It's compulsory. No boyfriend of mine gets away with not dressing up on my birthday."

"What are you going as?" Gerard asks, not exactly changing the subject but not exactly agreeing either.

In answer, Kitty tosses something at them. It lands on Frank's lap, staring upwards with empty eyes. It's a rubber mask, green and purple. "A ghoul," Frank says.

"The fun kind, obviously," adds Kitty, grinning. "We figured some ripped clothes, pretty basic really. I'm gonna be a cat woman." Gerard would roll his eyes at that, but actually, he thinks she'll carry it off well.

"How about you?" he asks Jamia.

"Post-apocalyptic desert biker chick," she says dryly.

Gerard smirks. "Suits you," he says. "I guess I'll go as a post-apocalyptic desert art punk rock band... guy."

"Yeah, so about that," Frank says. "Here's what I figure. I go as Fun Ghoul, you go as Party Poison, we all dress up to match the comics, right? Like, make it a thing. The kids are coming to see the Killjoys, so we go as the Killjoys."

"You want us to dress up for Halloween as ourselves?" Gerard says, wheels starting to turn in his head.

"As our comic book selves."

"Our comic book selves. Hmm." He's been saying for ages that they're _not_ their comic book characters, but if that's the case, then it actually sort of makes sense that they dress up as them. Huh. He untangles himself from Frank, pulls out his notebook, flips pages until he gets to a good picture of them, standing, masked, with rayguns drawn. "We'll all need masks. We can make them out of cardboard or something if we have to. They might not last long though." He thinks for a moment, and starts sketching in the borders, rough doodles as he tries to get his thoughts together. "We could wear scarves over our faces, too. I mean, it might be good to be incognito, you know, at least 'til we get on stage? Or, um, full masks, like Frank's? We could strip back to the little ones when we go on."

"You've still got that Mousekat mask don't you?" Frank asks. Gerard nods. It's sitting on the counter at the diner, a rebreather half-installed in it. Frank's picked up the idea and he's running with it, and Gerard draws while he talks. "Hey," he asks the girls, "maybe Ray and Mikey can wear motorcycle helmets?"

"No problem," Jamia says. "We can even paint ‘em up Killjoy style if you want."

"How about Mikey's bass, can we make it like in the comics?"

"Gonna take a lot of glitter," Jamia says. "Think I know where we can get some. Alicia'll help us if we ask her nice. And you," she says, firmly, to Gerard.

"Yes?" he says, looking up.

"Time we did something about that fucking awful bleach job. Can't have Party Poison going out there anything other than red." She taps her finger on the drawing in front of him for emphasis. "Gonna make a scene, you gotta do it right."

"Yeah," Gerard says, feeling a grin crack his face. "Let's do it."

"Alright!" Jamia says. "Hair dye party!"

* * *

 _Mikey rubs his eyes and sits up, quietly, trying not to wake Ray. There's grey light seeping in to the diner, and he smells coffee. When he steps out of the office, he finds Gerard brewing up the last of the stash. Gerard hands Mikey a mug without saying a word._

 _Frank pulls one headphone off his ear and looks up from the scanner as they come outside, says "hey", then puts it back on, careful not to dislodge Max, who's finally dozing against his side. Mikey wraps his arms around himself against the morning chill._

 _It's full light, sun up in the sky and heat starting to shimmer above the blacktop when Ray finally comes out. He looks tired, tense, despite having had more sleep than any of them, but he forces a smile. Max wakes up, and they eat breakfast from tins sitting on the bare concrete. Max turns the radio on, fiddling the knobs on her boombox. Doc's voice comes through the static, in between hair metal and no-wave and soul._

 _"Rise and shine, my dustangels. You're with Doctor D, spinning the sounds for all you killjoys from Route Guano to Bat City. The zones are buzzing, dracs are hopping, and word on the street is that the pony express'll be delivering the shiny tunes for all you boys and girls and everyone else."_

 _Mikey pauses with his spoon halfway to his mouth, waits. But there's nothing more, just Rammstein. They all look at each other for a long moment._

 _"Do you think —" Ray says._

 _Max cuts him off with a shriek. "Pony!" She's bent over the scanner, tweaking the dials and trying to pick up an image from the static._

 _They jostle to see what's on the screen, but it's not much more than a grey blur, interspersed with jagged streaks of interference and BLI logos. "I saw hir," Max says, emphatic. "I did." She nudges one of the dials again and then Mikey sees it too — it's one of the zone surveillance cams, out on the highway, not too far away. Pony's lean form is a pale streak against the road, and he can make out the rhythm of hir limbs as ze skates past. The camera turns to follow hir, then cuts out._

 _"You saw it, Mikey," Max says. "You saw hir? Ze's coming."_

 _Mikey nods._


	5. Chapter 5

Two days before the show, they pack as much shit as they as they can into the Trans Am and take the south road in, hooking around the drac outposts that have sprung up all along Route Guano. It's rough down there, burned out cinderblock compounds and razorwire, but they don't stop to chat with the locals, just keep driving until they hit the borderzones, where desert starts to become city.

"Shit," says Gerard, peering ahead. Max fumbles for her scanner, pointing it ahead, tweaking some buttons, and nodding grimly. There's a white box by the roadside, two dracs standing beside it. Must be fresher than the Lopez sisters' latest intel.

"Fuck it," says Ray, and puts his foot down. There's no barrier, no spikes in the road or anything, so they just blast on through. The dracs pull their weapons and fire after the car, but the Killjoys are away before the dracs can chase them. They probably got the plates, Ray thinks, but it's not as if they weren't already on the Most Wanted list.

They're a few miles further on when Ray sees the drac bikes in his rear view mirror. Fuck knows where they came from, but they're fast, and they're gaining. _Objects in mirror are closer than they appear_ , Ray thinks.

"Uh, guys," he says, turning to look back over his shoulder. Fuck. But Frank and Mikey are already up on their knees, facing backward out the roof of the car, rayguns drawn. Ray tries not to be distracted by the sound of their shots or the flashes of light behind him. He can't even tell if the dracs are shooting back, doesn't even know if they can shoot and ride at the same time. Then something hits the car and he feels a quick zap of static through the steering wheel and the lights on the dash dim for a second. Fuck, okay, so they _can_ shoot and ride at the same time.

The next thing Ray sees in his mirror is one of the bikes going down, skidding along the road, and the other smashes into it and flips over, landing in a tangle that disappears quickly behind them. "For the motherfucking win!" Frank whoops, and high-fives Mikey before tumbling back down into his seat and high-fiving Max in turn.

"Think there'll be more of them?" Gerard asks.

"Maybe?" says Ray, shooting him a look. "Let's just get in there fast."

"Fast," Gerard agrees. His face is completely white.

Ray clutches his steering wheel so hard he's not sure he'll be able to let go when they finally make it to the park.

* * *

Jamia finally lets herself breathe again when they turn off the highway and clear the last checkpoint.

The waves have been full of dracs shouting nonsense phrases at each other. She grips Kitty's hand hard, concentrating on trying to figure out what the fuck is up, but she can't crack their new code. From the frustrated crease in Show Pony's brow and the irritated tapping of Kitty's fingernail on the window, she's not the only one. Something's got the dracs majorly stirred up, and Jamia puts two and two together and worries about whether the Killjoys made it to the Park unscathed.

The approach to the Park entrance seems quiet, at least, which is encouraging enough that she lets go of Kitty's hand with an apologetic smile.

"This place is kind of creepy," Alicia observes as they pull up to the gate. A young guy dressed mostly in black with platinum hair is muttering into his cell phone, eyeing their van warily.

"You're telling me. It's worse now than it was when it was open. I remember going here as a kid with my family. I started crying on the Danger Duck ride and mom took us home early. I was such a wuss." Kitty says. "Now look at me." She pats her raygun holster fondly and waves at the kid when he pulls the gate open for Alicia to drive through. The park _is_ creepy, Jamia thinks as they drive down the old service path, past all the deserted stripped-down rides and gutted permanent structures where there used to be concessions and shops.

"No shit? Our tough kitten, scaredy-cat?" Jamia says, tugging Kitty's pigtail and snuggling against her in the backseat. "I grew up too far away, we never made it to Better Playing when it was open. That's gotta be it, look." She points at one of the bigger warehouses, which looks remarkably inconspicuous except for the fact that it's got lights on and a few people hanging around outside.

Jamia hops out of the van with a groan, stretching with a joint-popping yawn as a couple of young people in carefully artistic outfits and wary looks eye them, distrust replaced quickly by shy smiles when Frank and Ray look up from the guitars they're bent over and Frank lets out a whoop and dashes over to high-five Kitty and Pony and squeeze Jamia up in one of those obnoxious tight little can't-breathe hugs he's so fond of, the wiry fucker.

"You guys're late! Gee was starting to get worried. Not me though, I had faith in your badass driving. Like Evil Kneivel," he says, greeting Alicia with a peck on the cheek.

"It was quiet in the outer zones, but a fucking nightmare closer in. Road was crawling with dracs. Something stirred them up," Kitty says irritably. "Here, start unloading this stuff," she says, gesturing to the kids, who hop to it eagerly.

Jamia follows Show Pony into the warehouse, hauling the kick drum. The front area of the warehouse is dim and seems to be mostly storage, though she can hear the low sound of music coming from the far end and the murmur of several voices. It smells delicious in the building.

She sets the drum in a crowded little corner full of the band's gear and amps, pausing to admire the intensely graffiti-muraled interior walls. "Yes, this is definitely Killjoys HQ here in Bat City," she says wryly to Pony.

"They've got sharp management. They're doing a good job," Pony replies soberly, scanning the space critically. Ze's right, Jamia thinks, considering how nondescript the exterior is and how vibrant and lively the inside is, carefully buffered against drawing too much attention with noise. It's a shrewd setup, yet comfortable and open. The people using the space seem at home here, excited and productive. Everyone is holed up with piles of art shit, drawing and printing and fiddling with pieces of tech. By the smell of it, someone's grilling veggie burgers, and Jamia's stomach rumbles in anticipation.

"Miss us?" Mikey says, coming up and tilting his head up to Pony for a kiss. Jamia doesn't miss the flash of real delight in Pony's face. Jamia can't help but smile like the sap she knows she is when Pony drops the crate, reaching for Kobra Kid and sweeping him into a classic movie star kiss, much to his chagrin.

Mikey's wearing a truly ugly orange hat with ear-flaps and a bobble on top, and Jamia picks it up off the ground when it falls off during the big dip. It's handmade, and not even that well, though she figures with a hat as ridiculous as this it shouldn't even matter how neat the knit is.

"Pete got me a present," Mikey says, deadpan.

"It's very _you_ ," Jamia says, pulling it back onto Mikey's head over his greasy hair and tying it in a neat bow under his chin.

Mikey makes a not-so-subtle head tilt toward the back door, which is open, and Pony widens hir eyes in mock surprise. Jamia can see the Trans Am through it, clean with the spider touched up in fresh paint. Mikey has the grace to toss an apologetic glance at Jamia as he and Pony head out there, arm in arm. She just scowls playfully and waves them off, turning back for another armload of gear from the van.

She passes Ray by the stack of electronic equipment sorting, cords with a teenage girl in dark braids. She raises an eyebrow at the girl, who's chattering determinedly at him about guitar shit, Jamia doesn't even know. Ray looks bemused at the obviously starry-eyed attention, but he's gracious and seems pretty animated, asking her about the song she's working on now.

Alicia is squinting down at a laptop on the other side of the room next to a short dude with a lot of tattoos and a taller guy wearing a fedora. The laptop's got about a million cords coming out of it, patched in to a number of other electronics Jamia can't even begin to identify. Alicia waves Jamia over, grinning.

"This is Pete, that's Gabe," Alicia says by way of introduction.

"Good to meet you, finally," Jamia says, sticking her hand out to shake. Pete grins wolfishly and Gabe kisses her hand with a stupid flourish. "You all set for the big show?"

"Fuck yeah, dude," Pete says with a wide grin. "They won't know what's hit them. I've got it patched straight through the central broadcaster _and_ through every unprotected network repeater in the city. We're just sorting out Gabe's side of it now. This is gonna be so sweet."

"Awesome," Jamia says, slapping Pete on the back just to fuck with him. "We've got some more transmitters and shit from Doc in the van. I'll get Max to organize some kids to unload them for you."

She whistles and Max's head pops up from the gadget she and an older boy in a silkscreened spider shirt are conferring over. Max looks up, grinning, and scampers over. Jamia high-fives her and they head back out to the van, grabbing a couple of kids who look at loose ends on the way.

Kitty and Frank are out there a little ways down the path, having a smoke while Max and Jamia finish unloading, the slackers. Jamia sees to everything with the van then heads over to them.

Frank is saying, "There was a checkpoint on the south road. We blew straight through it, dusted a couple of dracs who came after us." Jamia thinks she can hear the effort Frank's using to sound cool about it, and tries not to smile.

Kitty frowns and wraps an arm around Jamia and waves her cigarette in aggrieved little jerks for emphasis. "They were scouring at our checkpoint, not just waving through. Took for fucking ever to get past it, and for a minute I thought the fucker wasn't going to let us past. He even ran our fucking plates. I made sure to get new ones for this trip and we paid double to make sure we wouldn't get hassled at the gates. Those plates should've been beyond fucking reproach."

Jamia raises an eyebrow at the guilty expression on Frank's face. "I'm sure you guys wouldn't have had anything to do with that," she prompts with a frown.

"Well... we couldn't exactly stop for them. We're on wanted posters!" He sounds kind of pleased about that, the idiot. "So, we blasted straight through. So much for under the radar. But we got away clean, and it's not like they don't already have the Trans Am on the blacklist." Frank shrugs.

"You're all a bunch of fucking idiots," Jamia says, resigned. He's got no fucking idea that that stunt just made it harder for the rest of them, but on the other hand she's not sure what else they could've done. They're too well known. "The south road was clear last week, should probably let the sisters know there's a new checkpoint and it's buzzing. Fuck, I was hoping to have a quiet night to set all this shit up and maybe catch a few hours to relax." Jamia shoves her fingers into the hair at the back of Kitty's neck, letting it pull against the tight pigtail she's got in, rubbing her fingertips in tiny circles. Kitty relaxes into it with a little sigh.

Frank rolls his eyes. "God, you guys. Get Alicia to do it or something. Take the night off, go make out in the bushes, it's not like you'd be the only one with all these fucking teenagers around."

Jamia grabs Kitty and presses a laughing kiss to her lips. "I think I saw a real comfy bush back along the path. You in, baby?"

"You say the sweetest things," Kitty says, reaching down to squeeze Jamia's ass. Jamia knows it's meant as a joke but it still makes her flush a little with want. She hadn't realized how much she missed having some fucking alone time with Kitty. Or alone time for fucking, she amends mentally.

"Get the fuck outta here. I should go check on Ray, make sure he's not in over his head with Ro. Did you see her? She's been following him round all day. She's pretty fucking awesome, but he doesn't know enough how to be an asshole sometimes," Frank says.

Jamia nods. "He seemed pretty distracted. I don't think he even noticed Pony and Mikey escaping to do unspeakable things to the upholstery in his car. You should probably go warn him about that," she says, tugging Kitty around for a kiss. Kitty smells like dust and the sweat of being confined in a car for too long, and she's looking a bit chilly as the sun goes down and the heat eases off. Jamia rubs her bare arms for her, dragging her fingernails lightly over Kitty's goosebumps.

Frank smirks at the two of them, then leers appreciatively for good measure and swaggers off to the warehouse. Jamia grabs Kitty's belt loop and hauls her off into the dark, snickering.

* * *

The next day is given over to rehearsal, and they start almost as soon as they get up, working through each song until it's perfect. But there's one song that's just fucked, and Gerard's starting to despair of ever getting it to work.

It's about the fiftieth time through, and they've been practicing for _hours_. Everyone's nerves are frayed. It's the new song, the one Ray and Frank came up with. Gerard's written words to fit it, but they're not _right_. They're close, but it's bugging him, so he keeps changing them on the fly, tripping over them as he tries to get them out of his mouth, then taking a moment to scrawl in his notebook, scratching out the old words and putting in new ones, before making them start over.

"It's not," Gerard says, then bites back whatever was going to come out of his mouth next, because he doesn't fucking _know_. It's just not right, the words are all wrong, and no matter how many times he tries to fix it, he can't get it to come out how it should. "I just... let's try it again."

Ray starts in with the guitar lick he wrote, and the others follow him a few bars later, while Gerard leans on his mic stand and tries to make the words line up right. If he can just get his head into the right place, perhaps he'll be able to fall into the music and come up at the end of it knowing what it needs. "I hope you're ready for a firefight", he sings. It's a call to arms. He tries to sing it as if he's leading them into battle, spitting and screaming, finishing with his arms raised in the in the air as the last crash of guitars and drums echoes around him. The cluster of kids sitting nearby applaud raggedly.

Gerard squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. "Again," he says.

Gabe breaks it up eventually. "Take a break, dudes," he says, coming over as they finish yet another run-through. "It's dinner time. Tofu-dogs for all!" Frank throws his guitar down with completely unnecessary haste and dashes for the food, and Gerard just waits while the others troop off, winding his mic lead in his hand before putting it down and heading outside.

He lights a cigarette and leans against the warehouse, head-first, pushing his forehead against the wall as if the pressure will straighten his brain out. He takes a deep drag on it and grimaces at the taste of shitty grey-market tobacco. Everything about this city feels like it's closing him in. Even the cigarettes are bland, nothing here feels quite as wild, as exhilarating and bright as it does in the desert. He's fucking tired. He's fucking tired of all of it, of being here where nothing is quite right, not his music, not his art, not his brain. It's just not good enough. He doesn't even hear Frank behind him, 'til there's a hand on his shoulder and a tofu-dog shoved under his arm. He pushes it away, wordlessly.

"What the fuck is your problem? Hey, look at me," Frank says, pulling Gerard around to face him. "We were fucking good in there."

Gerard shrugs. "Yeah, I just. We can be better. I think it just needs... something. I don't even fucking know. It's..." He pulls at his hair. "I just need to figure it out."

"Yeah, and beating your head against a wall and not eating anything will help with that."

"It might," Gerard says, but he takes the tofu-dog and takes a bite of it. It tastes kind of crappy.

"So why don't you fucking tell me what the problem is," Frank says, and he's kicking at the ground, frustrated.

Gerard sighs. "There's so much riding on this. I need to get it right, and it's _not_ right, and I keep trying but it's not coming."

"The song's fucking good."

"Your bits are good," Gerard concedes. "I mean, they're great, the music is great... it's just, the words. And there's so much other shit going on, I can't even _concentrate_. I'm trying to keep it all straight in my head and I have this vision of what it should all be, but it's so big I can't... I can't see it all. I can't even figure out the fucking words. And they need to be — they need to be good enough, you know? Good enough to mean something."

"Okay," says Frank, "I get that, but, fuck... it's fucking good already, you know? You're, like, tearing yourself up over this, and acting like a fucking diva princess —" Gerard shoots him a look and opens his mouth to protest, but Frank rides over him. "No, shut up, you are. But you don't even know what it is you want to change, so it's completely pointless. Just... it is what it is, you know? And it's fucking good. Have you seen the look on those kids' faces in there? They love it. It's going to be awesome."

It's not that he doesn't believe that. It's that it has to go so far beyond this warehouse, it has to be so much bigger. "You don't get it," he says. "Jesus, Frank, these kids are depending on us. I'm — I'm _responsible_ for them, for all of this. It's my responsibility."

"The fuck?" Frank stops kicking at the concrete and looks at him. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, it is," Gerard says. "I started this thing. I dragged you all into it. I need to make sure it all works out right."

Frank just stares at him, then turns and storms off inside. Gerard doesn't even know what he said.

* * *

There's crap all over the table in the area they use as a kitchen, and Frank starts cleaning it up, throwing garbage away with vicious energy, piling dirty coffee mugs in the sink and running the water as hot as he can make it. There's no fucking dish soap anywhere nearby, but while he's swearing about it and digging around under the makeshift counter, a kid shows up and finds the squeezy bottle he's looking for.

"Thanks," he says, because even if he's fucking angry it's not the kid's fault.

"Need a hand?" he asks, and Frank looks at him. He's young, looks kind of strung out and tired, like he could use a shower, but he's buzzing with energy.

"You can dry," Frank says, digging his hands into the soapy water. They work for a while in silence, Frank handing him mugs as he cleans them.

After he gets through the mugs and plates, he attacks the crusted forks with a vengeance. The kid leans against the counter and waits. "I'm Luis," he says.

"Frank." There's cheese or something all stuck between the pointy bits, and it won't come off even when he uses his thumbnail.

"Yeah, I know."

Frank looks over at him. He'd kind of started to get used to the kids acting kind of weird and over-excited around him or Gerard or Mikey or Ray. Not that Frank's got a big head or anything, but the kid seems pretty matter of fact about it, and that's a change. Well, not-weird's just fine. Frank's had enough bullshit for the day.

"I used to be at the skate shop," Luis says, by way of explanation. That means he's been doing this longer than Frank has. Huh.

"Cool," Frank says, and pulls more wet forks out of the sink. "So how'd you get into this?" he asks, just to be friendly.

Luis takes the forks Frank hands him, and says, "Me and Wayne, we went to this school right? He heard about the skate shop, you know, back when things were just starting up. So him and me, we went down there, started doing some shit, stencilling and painting and whatever. We used to sticker our school, hand out zines, you know. Used to draw shit in class, Killjoys blowing shit up. So one day they busted us and we wound up in the principal's office. They wanted to put us on, like, some fucking program. Pills and counseling. So we got out of there." He shrugs. "We knew this other kid, Ash. They suspended him and made him get fixed. He was gone a few weeks, came back all different, right? So we said fuck that."

"No shit," Frank says. The forks are done, so he lets the water out and wrings out the dishcloth. "What are you doing now?"

"Celebrating not being in a cell," Luis says. "Just in time for your big show."

"Wait," says Frank, "you're that kid — you guys got arrested?"

Luis shrugs. "Lots of people get arrested."

"No, man, I mean — we heard all about the raid. Gerard was freaking out. Korse sent him this message, just to fuck with him or something, get him to do something stupid. Gee wouldn't shut up about how it was all his fault. How'd you get out? I mean, I didn't think the dracs'd just let you go."

"We're minors," Luis says. "They had to let us out in the end. Community service and rehabilitation. _Get rid of those unwanted creative urges with BLI brand medication_." He says it mockingly, like the ads on TV. "They doped us up pretty good inside, but I managed to shake it once I got out. Wayne too."

Frank frowns. "You do this shit because you want to, right?"

"What? Yeah, of course."

"I mean, nobody fucking makes you do it. You chose to be part of this, to be a — an artist, whatever you do."

"Yeah, I'm on Travie's crew, man. We're the best."

"Right. And don't take this the wrong way, but it's nobody else's fault you got arrested, right?" Luis's eyebrows shoot up. "I mean, you chose to do this, you went into it eyes open, nobody told you you had to or pressured you or anything?"

"Right," Luis says, kind of warily.

"Yeah, well," Frank says. "Me too." He kind of feels like kicking something, but the counter's just made of milk crates and boards and it'd probably collapse.

"Okay," says Luis. "Hey, uh. You wanna come on a run with us? I mean, if you don't have to rehearse or whatever. We were gonna go hit some billboards this afternoon."

Frank shoots a look at the door. Gerard's still out there sulking. They're not gonna be rehearsing anytime soon. "Fuck yeah," he says. "I haven't spent this much time indoors in months. Let's get the fuck out of here."

* * *

Mikey finishes his tofu-dog, licks his fingers, and decides to go see where Gerard's got to. He's been watching the door all through dinner, and even though Pete and Gabe are pretty entertaining, and Show Pony's almost as amusing with the incredulous looks ze kept throwing at Pete's antics, Mikey's been paying more attention to the fact that Frank stomped in looking furious half an hour ago, and now he's gone off somewhere, and Gee's still outside moping.

Mikey slips away from the crowd inside and finds his brother sitting against the wall, pushing a cigarette butt into the cracked concrete. Mikey folds himself down and sits next to Gerard, wrapping his arms round his knees, and rests his head on them, tilting it sideways to look at Gerard, who doesn't look back at him.

"Hey," Mikey says, and leans towards him, bumping shoulders.

"Frankie hates me," Gerard says.

"No he doesn't."

"He called me a _diva princess_." Mikey doesn't say anything to that, just waits 'til Gerard continues, "I don't even know why he's mad at me."

Mikey doubts that, but doesn't deny it. "He's gone out now," he says instead. Gerard looks up quickly, searchingly. "With Luis and Travie," Mikey adds. "You wanna come back in?"

Gerard shakes his head. "‘m okay," he says. "Where'd they go?"

"Don't know," Mikey says. "Art run, I think. You want me to stay here?"

"Mmm," says Gerard, and leans against him.

Mikey pats his hair consolingly and shifts a little to lean against his brother.

* * *

It's about a half hour walk to the overpass. Luis and Travie lead the way, and when they're about two blocks away they point out the billboard they're gonna hit.

"That's a big fucking billboard," Frank says, stating the obvious. It's about twice as long a normal one, and it's all lit up with spotlights. It shows a row of beautiful people, celebrities, all in monochrome, giant fake smiling heads with perfect hair and perfect teeth. Over their heads, in stark black letters, it says "Better Living Awards / 8pm Thurs / BLI1".

"Yup," Travie says with a grin.

"That's the point," Luis adds.

Travie leads them to a sheltered spot by one of the pylons, guarded from the view of passing traffic, then pulls out his phone and sends a text. It buzzes a moment later. "They'll be here in five," he says after he reads the message.

"So what's the plan?" Frank asks.

Travie grins, his face lighting up like a naughty schoolboy's. He peers out around the pylon, and pulls Frank by his t-shirt so Frank's got a view too. "Okay, so you see the billboard?" Frank nods, craning his head up. It'd be fucking hard to miss it. Travie points at the next pylon over. "That's our way up. It's there for the crews who do the billboards. There's a walkway under it, see? Spotlights attached to that. We cut the power on our way up. Should be enough ambient light to work by, but we won't be lit up for everyone to see. You feeling artistic?"

"Hell yeah," Frank says, and Travie gives him a complicated high-five that turns into some kind of handshake. Travie's smile's infectious, and Frank's starting to feel some adrenaline too, thinking about climbing up there and turning that billboard into something awesome.

"We're not doing anything fancy," Travie says. "Just fucking up those celebrities, KJ-style. Give ‘em makeup, crazy hair, clothes, whatever. All color."

"I got your color right here," says a voice from behind them, and they turn round to see a bunch of kids, most of them carrying bags. The guy who spoke shakes his duffle and it rattles, spraycans bumping against each other and those little shaker things making the high-pitched noise that they make.

"Hey, Chris, dude," Travie says, and gives the guy a complicated handshake. "This is Frankie, he's with us tonight. Frankie, come meet everyone. This is Chris and Ro and Charisse and Andi and Shawna."

Frank recognizes a couple of the kids from the warehouse. Chris and Ro, he thinks... Ro's the girl who was tagging around after Ray yesterday. The others are new to him. Frank's probably never going to remember all those names, but he says hi anyway, and shakes a few hands, saying their names back to them so maybe they'll stick in his brain.

Travie doesn't wait for the social niceties to be done before he says, "Luis, we good to roll?"

Luis lets go of Ro, who was giving him a hug in greeting, and comes forward, pulling a radio from his pocket, headphone cord trailing from it. Frank thought Luis'd been listening to an iPod or something when they walked down here, but it's bigger than that, and home-made looking, held together with duct tape. "Gimme a sec," Luis says, unplugging the headphones so they can all hear. It's tuned to the drac band. Frank hadn't even known they could do that, and raises his eyebrows. Travie just winks at him, but doesn't say anything.

They all listen for a while. Frank can hardly make sense of it, but it looks like the others know the jargon, because after a few minutes Travie nods decisively and says, "Sweet. Let's do it." He raises his hand to each of them in turn for a high five, then they scurry over to the other pylon and start climbing.

Chris and Travis takes the lead, and Frank's near the back, between two of the girls, Charisse and Shawna, he thinks. They pause halfway up the ladder, Frank's face right up against Charisse's sneakers, while the guys up front cut the power to the lights, then keep going.

Charisse turns around and offers Frank her hand to pull him up when they get to the top of the ladder. He pauses and looks around. It didn't look so far up from the ground, but once he's on the platform he realizes how far away the ground is, and he can see it through the metal grille he's standing on. There's traffic passing underneath, headlights glowing. If he can see them, they can probably see him — except that the lights are out up here on the platform, and who the fuck looks up at overpasses anyway?

It's fucking crazy, and he can't stop grinning.

He bounces on his toes while Charisse opens the duffel she had slung over her shoulder, spreading it wide so he can see all the cans inside. "Well, come on," she says, and grabs one of them, green, Frank thinks, in the patchy city light. He grabs another can — red — and stares at the huge grey celebrity in front of him. It's a TV star, he thinks. He remembers seeing her in something before he left the city, fucked if he remembers what, though. She's huge, rising taller than Frank's head even though it only shows her from the waist up. It's a good thing she's shorter than the other figures on the billboard, but even so, he's not gonna be able to reach to draw a hat on her or anything. He shakes his can and thinks, quickly, then starts to spray over her dress, painting the whole thing red.

Shawna, on the other side of him, is reaching up to paint a ridiculous blue mohawk on a FACT News sports presenter. She's better with her spraycan than Frank is, doesn't leave dribbles everywhere. When she's done she grabs another, orange this time, and paints around his eyes, like a mask or some kind of glam makeup. Frank likes that. He grabs a yellow can and paints swipes of color under his actress's eyes, like a footballer's greasepaint. Next he adds a fingerless glove to her right hand, using the green that Charisse is finished with. He wishes he could step back and look at his work from a distance, but he can't. Still, he can tell it needs some shading or something. That's what Gerard would probably do. He rummages in the bag, looking for a darker green.

"Whatcha looking for?" Charisse asks.

"Dark green. And dark red if you've got it."

"Hey, you got dark green?" Charisse says to the guys on the other side of her, and one of them passes a can down. "Lookin' good," she tells Frank, looking over at his work. "Don't waste too much time on it, though. Gotta get moving soon."

"That's fifteen," Travie says, as if to punctuate Charisse's comment. "Start wrapping it up. I'll do the words then we're out of here." He reaches into one of the bags and pulls out a roll of paper, then climbs on the safety railing, leaning against the billboard so he can reach the words advertising the award ceremony. Frank watches as he unrolls the paper, and realizes it's some kind of sticky sheet as Travie starts plastering it over the black and white words. The first one says "ART".

"Come on," Shawna says, elbowing Frank to pull his attention away from Travie and back to his work. "Five minutes."

"‘Kay," Frank says, and gets back to fixing TV lady's red dress, outlining it and drawing curves under her tits in darker red. He adds some nipples just for good measure.

"Shit, guys, hurry up," says Luis from the far end of the platform. He's been working with his earbuds in, listening for any sign of the dracs.

"Patrol?" comes Travie's voice from overhead.

"Someone called it in," Luis says. "They're a ways off yet, but they're heading our way."

"Fuck," says Travie, eloquently, and Frank agrees with him. He looks at Charisse and Shawna on either side of him, but they're just finishing up their work as quickly as they can, not panicking. They throw their cans in the bags, and Frank gathers up the ones he was using and throws them in too. Charisse zips her bag shut and slings it over her shoulder.

Travie's pasting down the last strip of paper at the far end of the billboard. It says "WEAPON". He jumps down from the rail and the platform shudders under him. "Go!" he says. "Come on, what are you waiting for? Get down there."

Frank scrambles down the ladder, his hands sweaty on the rungs. He jumps when he's a few feet from the ground, and stumbles clear of the ladder so the others can come down behind him. He takes a moment to look up. It's not too clear in the glow of the streetlamps and the general fog of light pollution that's always around the city, but when morning comes, that billboard's gonna be blazing out a message to anyone who drives past. It reminds him of a Sex Pistols album cover, bright colors and pasted lettering, only it's plastic celebrities instead of the Queen of England. He can make out the blue mohawk on the sports guy, but he can't see the yellow stripes on his actress's face. Hopefully it'll look okay in daylight.

He doesn't have time to stop for art criticism, though. Someone's grabbing him by the shoulder and they're running, pounding down an empty street, right in the middle of the road. Some of them start whooping in jubilation, and Frank joins them, shouting "Wooo!" and "Fuck yeah!" and raising his hands above his head in victory as he runs.

They make it about two blocks when they see lights ahead, pinpoints of white getting closer. Dracs. "Split up," Travie shouts, and the kids start to break off in different directions. There's the first snap and crackle of raygun fire, and Frank ducks low, covering his head with his arm. "You're with me," Travie says to Frank, and grabs him by the hand. They race off down a narrow side street, then turn into an alleyway that runs along the side of a warehouse.

There's a dumpster against the wall, and Travie jumps up on it, pulling Frank up after him. "What are you doing?" Frank asks.

Travie doesn't answer, just pulls off his hoodie and wraps it round his arm, then breaks a pane of the window that's set into the wall right there.

"What are you — you can't —" Frank says in an urgent whisper.

"Place is empty," Travie says, knocking out as much of the glass as he can. It makes a tinkling sound as as it falls, and Frank winces. "No alarms, no guards. I scoped it out last week. It's cool, I promise. Hey, c'mere." He puts his hands out, fingers laced together, and boosts Frank through the window.

Frank wriggles through the window, feeling the remnants of the glass scrape and cut through his jacket as he goes through. Then, when he lands, he ends up tangled in some boxes, and when he finally staggers free of them, he feels something slice through the sole of his sneaker. "Fuck," he says, hopping on one foot. "Watch out for the glass," he calls back to Travie. "I think I cut myself." He pulls off his jacket and hands it up, and Travie lays the hoodie and the jacket over the window-ledge before coming through himself.

"You alright?" says Travie, dropping down beside where Frank's sitting on one of the boxes, his foot up on his knee.

"Yeah, I dunno," Frank says. It's dark so he can't really see. He pulls a chunk of glass out of his shoe and tries to unlace his sneaker and figure out how much damage there is. It hurts, but not too bad, though it is starting to throb unpleasantly.

"Want some light?" Travie asks, and turns on his cellphone, pointing the screen in the general direction.

The knot's easier to work undone when he can see it. When he gets his shoe off, he can tell his sock's soaked in blood, and it starts dripping on the floor while they watch.

"Fuck," Frank says, and pulls his sock off. There's a good sized hole in the sole of his foot, and it's pretty messy. He pokes at it, pulling at the flesh to see how deep it is.

"Don't do that," Travie says. "Fuck, put some pressure on it, stop the bleeding." He unknots the bandanna he's got around his neck and hands it over, and Frank grits his teeth against the pain and tries to tie it around his foot, wadding up his sock under it. It's not very effective, and it's probably not sanitary. Frank's foot will probably get infected and fall off, knowing his luck.

"Hey, how long do we have to stay here?" he asks.

"'Til shit quiets down," Travie says. "Luis's got the scanner, he'll let us know. Hey, you wanna elevate that or something?"

"What?"

"You're still bleeding, man," Travie says, looking pointedly at the blood that's still dripping on the dirty floor. "Not to be a boy scout or whatever, but it might help if you lifted it up or something."

They manage to rearrange some crates so they can sit down somewhere that's not covered in broken glass, and Frank hops around and tries to get comfortable with his foot up on a box. It does seem to slow the bleeding, but every time he pulls off the bandanna to look at it, it starts up again. He doesn't think it's too serious though... nothing Alicia can't sew up if necessary. At least it didn't hit a vein or anything. It doesn't even really hurt. As long as he can play tomorrow night... fuck. He hasn't even been thinking about the band, about the music, about fucking _Gerard_ , while he's been out with Travie's crew, but now he's got some time it all sneaks up on him again, the whole clusterfuck, him and Gerard fighting. Fuck.

He shifts impatiently. "How much longer?" he asks.

Travie looks up from the bluish glow of his cell phone's screen. "Almost clear. Waiting on Ro and Andi to check in." He types something on the phone's keypad, hits send. He sounds pretty relaxed. This is probably a normal Wednesday night for him.

Frank kicks the heel of his unharmed foot against the box he's sitting on, thinks about what Gerard was saying earlier, about Luis in a cell, about all of them up there on that platform painting over the BLI billboard where anyone could see them if they looked.

"You think this is worth the risk? This whole — what you do?" he asks.

"Hell yeah," Travie says, looking at him sharply. "Why you even asking that?"

"Those kids," Frank says, pushing, though he knows the answer. "Andi and Ro. What if they don't check in? What if the dracs found them? Don't you worry about that?"

Travie rolls his shoulders thoughtfully and stares at the ceiling for a moment. "Still worth doing," he says. "The kids think so too. They know what's what."

Frank opens his mouth to say something, something about Gerard, but Travie's phone buzzes before he can speak.

"It's them," Travie says, then he squeezes his eyes shut for a second before opening them again. "Andi and Ro. Ro's been hit."

"Fuck," Frank says, feeling his gut clench. "Is she —"

"They're back at Gabe's. She's out cold, been hurt pretty bad."

Frank remembers Pony being hit, the disgusting smell of cooked meat. Those fucking dracs, shooting to kill against unarmed kids... Frank's got his raygun, but Andi and Ro hadn't had anything, as far as he'd seen. "Motherfuckers," he says with feeling.

"The kids know what they're up against," Travie reminds him.

"Yeah, I — no, I just mean, _motherfuckers_."

"Dude, no argument here," Travie says. His phone beeps again. "Alright, Luis says the patrols have cleared out. Gabe's coming to pick us up. Let's get out of here."

* * *

"Hey," says Ray, apologetically, poking his head around the door. He doesn't want to intrude, doesn't really want to talk to Gerard at all after the snit he was in earlier, but Gerard and Mikey need to know this. "Um, it's Frank," he says. "You left this inside." He hands Mikey his phone.

Mikey quickly takes in the messages on the screen. Gerard looks stricken, frozen, while he waits for Mikey to read what's there. "Is Frank okay?" he asks, when Mikey doesn't say anything.

"It's from Travie," Mikey says, still pushing at buttons, scrolling through messages. "There were dracs. They're okay for now, they're hiding out. Frank's with him."

"Um," Ray says, "you know that kid Ro? Apparently she was with them. She got hurt. They're bringing her in now."

"What?" Gerard says, looking up in alarm, pushing himself up off the ground.

"Hey," Ray says, "wait. You can't — they've got it under control. It's better not to crowd them." Alicia and another guy, some kind of medic, had got the news and were already getting shit organized inside, clearing people out of the way and breaking out their med kits. Ray didn't want to hang around and watch. She was just a kid, shit.

Gerard's face crumples, and he manages to say, "Mikey," his voice all torn up, before he turns and buries his face in his brother's armpit. Mikey puts an arm around him, and looks up at Ray. Ray's learned to read him well enough by now that he comes over and sits on Mikey's other side, putting his arm round Mikey's waist. He doesn't look at Gerard, but he doesn't look away, either. It's hard to stay pissed at him, under the circumstances.

Mikey holds Gerard, patting his hair awkwardly, until Gerard snuffles and pushes his hair out of his eyes and says, "That kid got hurt, and Frank... he could've been killed. He could've been arrested, or... anything. He went out without me and I wasn't there and he was _mad_ at me. He went out because he was mad at me."

"Yeah," Mikey says, evenly. "You were kind of being a diva princess."

"Shut up," Gerard says, but without any real anger. "I should have stopped him."

"He's a big boy," Mikey says, and Ray nods, even though Gerard probably can't see him.

"He's..." Gerard stops, and takes a couple of deep breaths. "I told him he was my responsibility. I... shit. I'm a fucking idiot."

Mikey pats Gerard's hair again, smoothing down some of sticking-up bits. "You said it," he says.

They sit quietly for a bit, listening to the noise inside the warehouse, filtered and attenuated before it reaches them. There's a lot of shouting at first, then it dies down and all they can hear is tense voices. Ray figures Ro's in there, somewhere, getting patched up. Shit, he hopes she's okay. She's tough, though. All those kids are tough.

He looks up at the sky, dark grey above them, the sprawling lights of the inner zones reflecting off the layer of pollution above. Out in the desert they can see stars; here, there's nothing. Ray hadn't seen stars for years until that weekend they drove out of the city and camped by the side of the road, staying up all night. He realizes he really fucking misses them, he doesn't even mind the dust and dehydration and danger if it means he gets to have that life, free.

"Hey," Ray says.

"Mmm?" replies Gerard.

"Thanks for getting us out of here. I never said that."

"I didn't —"

"Yeah, I know, I mean. I just needed a shove, I guess. I hated that fucking job, hated this place, but I would've just stayed there forever if you hadn't. And then I wouldn't have had any of this." He nudges Mikey gently. "So. Thanks for making me make a choice, I guess."

Mikey's phone buzzes. He opens it and snorts, then holds it for Gerard and Ray to see. Travie's sent a picture — a BLI billboard, plastic celebrities all painted over with bright patches and streaks of color, the words "ART IS THE WEAPON" spread out over their heads. Ray laughs, and after a moment Gerard does too. Mikey takes his phone back, taps out a quick reply, and closes it.

"You think we should head back inside?" Gerard asks.

"Yeah," Ray says, standing up. "Probably." He holds his hands out and pulls them both to their feet, and they head back in to see how Ro's doing and wait for Frank.

* * *

Jamia's the first to spot Frank and Travie as they come limping in through the warehouse's side door, blinking in the sudden light. She lets out a celebratory whoop and bounds over to hug them.

"Hey," Frank says, half squashed, standing awkwardly with his weight on one foot so the other doesn't start bleeding again. Jamia lets go of him, and Frank sees Gerard right behind him, his arms wrapped in front of him holding his notebook like a shield.

"Frank," Gerard says. His eyes look big, and he's staring at Frank's foot wrapped in its stupid bandanna, and looking guilty as fuck, as though it was all his fault. He's holding himself like a puppy that's been kicked or something. Frank doesn't even know what to say to that, doesn't want to just let Gerard off the hook because Gerard was fucking _wrong_ , okay? He's not fucking responsible for everyone else and he's sure as fuck not responsible for Frank, and he has to know that.

Then Gerard drops his notebook and throws himself at Frank and says, " _Frank_ ," his voice all broken, his arms tight around Frank's body, and Frank hugs him back awkwardly before Gerard lets go and says, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm an idiot. God, you're hurt," he adds.

“It's okay,” Frank says. He doesn't want to get distracted from the main point here.

Gabe's grabbed Travie and dragged him away, and everyone else is giving them a bit of space, but Frank knows they're watching. Gerard realizes it too, because he's suddenly self-conscious, rubbing at his face and scratching at the back of his neck, and when he speaks it's obvious that he knows he's saying something important so he's trying to make sure it comes out right. He clings to Frank's hand, though, and it's sweaty and kind of gross. Frank squeezes back, cautiously.

"I'm trying to let go," Gerard says. "I keep thinking that this is my thing, that I dragged everyone into it and I'm responsible for them, but I know that's not right. I can't be responsible for everything and I... I shouldn't be. That's not fair on you. You're — you're so much more than that, Frankie."

"Yeah?" Frank says, trying not to let himself get sucked in too easily by Gerard's stupid apologetic face.

"I guess I was kind of being a diva," Gerard admits, and Frank can't help cracking a smile at that. "I don't want to — I'm not — I mean, the Killjoys, we're a team, yeah?"

Frank thinks about Gerard's comic, about the band, about the last shitswap they hit. "Yeah," he says. "I mean, I thought we were supposed to be."

"So."

"So?" He's gonna make Gerard say it.

"So, I'm sorry for being a dick. I want to make it up to you."

Frank looks at him steadily for a moment, then gives up and leers. "I'll let you make it up to me later," he says with a wink. Gerard's face cracks into a huge grin, like the sun's come out.

Frank doesn't care who's watching. He leans in, wrapping his hand round the back of Gerard's neck, and kisses him hard. "Gee," he says, breaking away just enough to speak against his mouth, "You're an idiot."

"Yeah," Gerard agrees, happily. “Come on, let's get Alicia to look at your foot.”

Frank grimaces. "It's not that bad," he says. "Just needs disinfecting and stuff."

Alicia's disinfectant hurts like a motherfucker, and Frank lets her know it. "Shut up, stop being a baby. If you're going to be a complete idiot you can live with the consequences," Alicia grumbles. "And you need stitches." She pulls out her suture needle and thread.

"How's Ro," Frank asks, as Alicia ties off the last one. He hasn't seen her, but there's an area curtained off to one side, and it's obvious that that's where she is.

"Unconscious," Alicia says, frowning. "She took a blast to the shoulder. Nasty burn."

"She's going to be okay, though?"

Alicia just shrugs. "Hope so. We've got her knocked out cold. She should be in a hospital, but..." Yeah, no. It's not like they can just take her to a BLI emergency room with something like that. "Speaking of," Alicia says, "you need a tetanus shot, but it'll probably have to wait 'til after the show. I can give you some painkillers."

Frank looks over at Gerard, who's hovering nearby, looking green. "Nah, I'll be fine," he says.

"Alright," she says dubiously, then frowns at him sternly. "You need to stay off it. I mean it. Let it heal."

"But —"

"You can play the show, just don't go running around on it unless you have to, okay?"

"Yeah," Frank says, resignedly. They're going to have to get back to rehearsing, and Alicia's probably going to make him do it sitting down.

It's even worse — she gets Gerard on her side, and Gerard's a complete mother hen, bringing a chair and a milk crate for Frank to put his foot on, and hovering solicitously until Frank says, "It's _fine_ , it's nothing, I can play just fine." He has to repeat himself ten times before Gerard grudgingly lets it go.

"Oh hey," Gerard says a minute or so later, while Frank's tuning up. "I wrote something while you were gone."

"Yeah?" he asks.

Gerard picks up his notebook and pages through it until he finds what he wants. He holds it out for Frank to see. His scrawl is messier than usual, phrases scratched out all over the place, but it's clear that these are words for the song they were working on. Parts of it are the same — Frank recognizes phrases here and there — but Gerard's moved them around, added stuff, and the words say something completely different now. "Save yourself?" he says, tracing the line of words with his fingertip.

Gerard nods. "It's... all of us in this together, you know? But everyone's responsible for themselves. And even if shit goes down... it's all worth it. I guess that's what I needed to figure out."

"Yeah," Frank says. "This is... this is good. You played it yet?"

Gerard shakes his head. "We were waiting for you."

"Okay," Frank says. He looks around and catches Ray's eye. Ray gives him a thumbs-up, and Frank grins back.

The other guys' instruments are where they left them before dinner, before Frank and Gerard fought. It was only a few hours ago, but it seems longer, somehow. Mikey and Ray pick up their guitars and Kitty sits herself behind the drum kit. Kitty looks a little dubious, as if she's not sure this is gonna work, so Frank shoots her a reassuring smile. He's got a good feeling.

"Um," says Gerard, looking around at each of them. "So, I think I've worked this out." He's holding his notebook in one hand, but he pauses to put it down on top of one of the amps. "I was wrong about a bunch of stuff, but I think it's right now. So if we could just go through it one more time... I've got a good feeling about this."

One more time. It feels like they've played through this song a hundred times already today, but Frank's got a good feeling about it too. Kitty nods, and Ray and Mikey do too, and then Ray breaks into the opening notes. Frank can hear a lightness in the melody that wasn't there before. He looks around as Kitty's drums come in, and he can see people looking back from around the warehouse, cautiously interested at first, then paying more attention as they hear what Frank's hearing. Gerard catches Frank's eye as Frank comes in with the opening chords of his part, and holds it as he begins to sing.

It's different, it's worlds different from this afternoon. Gerard is shining with the energy of it, putting everything he's got into the song, stamping his heel on the floor for emphasis. The kids start coming over from around the warehouse, gathering around to hear them. Frank can't keep himself from banging his head as he plays, and he'd totally be throwing himself around if Alicia wouldn't kill him, while Gerard takes the mic from its stand and stalks around, singing to each of them, and to the kids who are starting to crowd around. Then he walks over to Frank, runs his hands through Frank's hair as he sings, and Frank leans into him.

By the end of it, the kids are starting to sing along with the chorus, and when they crash out the last notes, they hang in the air for a moment and there's a breathless pause before the kids whoop applause. Gerard runs his hands through his hair, pushing the greasy red strands out of his eyes, and looks around at the band, grinning at them.

"Fuck yeah," says Kitty, which is pretty much Frank's view on it too. Mikey and Ray look pretty happy — Mikey's smiling quietly from behind his hair, and Ray's looking goofily over at him. Then Ray starts to pick out the opening notes of "Na Na Na", and Kitty comes in behind him, and before they know it they've launched into what turns out to be a run through their entire set.

It's the first time they've played it through, end to end, in front of a real audience, Frank realizes halfway through "Only Hope". They didn't even have time to be nervous about it. It's incredible. The kids are listening, and they're nodding and humming along, and then starting to pick up the words. Some of them have their phones out and are taking photos, or videos or whatever, Frank doesn't even know but he suspects they're going up on the tubes as soon as they finish playing. Max is down front with Jamia, and Jamia's got her arm across Max's shoulder and they're shouting along and banging their heads. There's only two more songs — five total — but the kids are with them the whole way. This fucking thing is going to _work_.

They finish their last song, "Kids From Yesterday", and Gerard blinks and says, "Uh, thanks. Thank you all. That's all we've got." His voice echoes for a moment, then he puts the mic back in its stand, and the kids cheer and clap. Gerard looks stunned, a blush rising in his cheeks, as he fends off congratulations and back-slaps from those nearest to him.

Show Pony comes gliding over, does a spin in front of them, and throws an arm around Mikey as he unstraps his bass. "You boys have fucking got it," ze says. "Won't say I didn't suspect it before, but that shit? Five stars, baby." Ze plants a kiss on Mikey, then one on Ray, and then a loud smack on Gerard's cheek. Gee looks flustered, and looks over at Frank, but Pony's winking at Frank conspiratorially so he just gives him a thumbs up and an obnoxious leer.

There's a crowd of people waiting to talk to them, and they're starting to hand round red plastic cups as Gabe starts playing music and the whole warehouse degenerates into a free-for-all party. Frank manages to grab a couple of sodas and hands one to Gerard, who pauses mid-sentence to swallow half of it, then keeps talking, one hand flying around in emphasis while the other holds his cup. Frank gives him a squeeze around the waist, then goes to talk to some of the other kids.

The funny thing about this crowd is, they don't just have a party and get drunk and dance and make out, like other kids would. As Frank moves through the knots of people clustered round the warehouse, he sees that half of them are working on stuff. Some of them are standing round a printer that's spitting out flyers, and others are sitting cross-legged in a rough circle, scissors and reels of thread scattered in between them, sewing patches on their clothes.

Max and Kitty have got a couple of other girls and they're pulling something apart, wires spewing out in a rainbow mess; Frank figures if Max doesn't know how to put it back together, nobody will.

He stops to talk for a while to some kids who've started their own band, makes some encouraging noises and promises to listen to the demo they're gonna put out on the waves as soon as they can. When he finishes a circuit and gets back to Gerard, he finds him rummaging through a plastic crate of art supplies.

"You ready to kick some ass tomorrow night?" Frank asks him.

Gerard just smiles, wider than Frank's ever seen it. "Yeah," he says. "It's gonna be huge."

* * *

 _"Keep your eyes peeled and your dials tuned to WKIL, motorbabies, ‘cause we've got draculoids inbound and we're about to bring you a one-oh-nine exclusive."_

 _Gerard can't stop hovering over the scanner, peering at the little screen, trying to pick out how close they are by the landscape and the cryptic codes that skitter across the screen. He thinks they're maybe half an hour out. He spotted Pony one more time, too, just a quick flicker of motion. His nails are chewed down to the quick already, but he keeps worrying at them 'til he can't take it any more._

 _"It's time," he says. "Let's fucking do it."_

 _His jacket's not much armor against anything the dracs'll throw at him, but he's not going out without it. He shrugs it on over his shoulders, and Max hands him his raygun to strap to his leg._

 _He can feel adrenaline starting to rush through him, the low hum of nerves he's had for the last day or so spiking into a jangling chorus of now-now-now. He looks over at Frank, who's shrugging into his own gear, holstering his weapon and catching Gerard's eye for a moment. Mikey's snapping his raygun's chargepack into place and checking the levels. He's so brave, it hurts Gerard to look at him. His little brother, fuck._

 _And Ray and Max, who he wouldn't even know if not for this — this fucking ridiculous revolution he wound up leading. Not to mention LynZ and her crew in the Springs, and Doc holed up at the garage, waiting for Pony to make it there with their music. His fucking people. His army._

* * *

Frank bangs on the service door to the Pit and bursts in when Brian answers it. "Brian! Holy fuck, did you see that line out there? Let us in, man." There'd been kids lined up around the block when they'd swung past the front of the place, wearing hand-printed spider shirts and masks and all kinds of costumes. Frank recognized some of them from Gabe's, but there were more, far more than he'd thought possible. Some of them had screamed when they'd pulled up, and come running up to meet them, and they'd had to hustle Gerard along and get him inside before he got trapped in the crowd. Frank tries not to let it freak him out, and instead flings an arm over Brian's shoulder and says, "Hey, it's my fucking birthday! Come meet these guys. This is my _band_."

Brian rolls his eyes. "Jesus christ, Frank," he says. "You crazy motherfucker. Pleased to meet you," he says, shaking hands all round.

"Where should we put our stuff?" Ray asks.

"Downstairs," Brian says. "Mad Gear's got the back room, so I put you in the other one. Not every night the opening act's got a crowd like this."

Frank nods. Usually the openers share the green room with the main act, but it's probably better they've got their own space in with all the beer kegs, even if it means he doesn't get to hang with Mad Gear. "Come on," Frank says, grabbing Gerard by the hand and shepherding all the guys downstairs. "I'll show you."

The basement is lit by bare bulbs in metal cages, and it smells of damp and sweat. Gerard wrinkles his nose at it, but Frank just hurries them all along, makes them dump their bags and whatever, and gets them back upstairs to unload their gear and check out where they're actually going to perform.

The Pit's a pretty decent sized venue, but though they can hear people milling around out there, they can't really see out into the main part of the club because the stage is cut off from the audience by a huge white curtain. It's new since Frank was here, and he doesn't get what it's for, but then as they wrestle their gear up on stage, it lights up and Frank realizes they're projecting images all over it. He can see the bright colors of Gerard's comic, and other stuff, stuff he thinks the kids have made, all kinds of Killjoys artwork. It's pretty awesome.

He catches Ray staring at it too and elbows him. "Cool," Ray says, then gets back to setting up his pedals.

Max is standing with one hand on her hip and the other arm full of cables, waiting for them to get their shit together and sound-check. Once she's got them all mic'd up, Max heads back to the sound booth and calls instructions to them. Kitty starts banging on her drums, and Mikey plucks at his bass, and Frank can hear the people out in the Pit get louder as the band starts making noise.

Max comes down, after, to talk about the cameras with Gerard, who's fussily adjusting his mic stand over and over and over. Frank decides to get the hell out of the way. Besides, he needs to take a piss. He grabs his mask and heads out into the Pit.

He tries to scope out the crowd a little as he weaves his way past the bar. They've opened the doors and the kids from outside are starting to come in, some of them milling around the bar, others crowding down around the stage, hoping to get good spots. Everyone's in costume, and it's the best fucking effort at Halloween he's seen in Bat City in years.

He spies Gabe in a full fursuit flirting with a small blonde girl in a gorilla outfit, and a cluster of zombies, but the weirdest thing is seeing kids dressed as Killjoys, costumes taken straight from Gerard's comics. He passes one girl with bright red hair, obviously dressed as Party Poison, but the weirdest thing he sees is someone who came in a homemade papier-mache spider costume, painted black with a zig-zagging lightning bolt across it and eight ridiculous legs waving around. The thing is awesome and it's totally going to get torn to shit when the show starts.

He's so busy gawking at the spider and not looking where he's going that he trips on a barstool on the way and goes down sprawling because his fucking Fun Ghoul mask, while hilarious, also has eyeholes the size of fucking dimes. At least the floor's clean, though it kind of reeks of Pine-Sol.

"You okay there?" the guy sitting at the bar asks, and his voice sounds really familiar. Frank tries to look at him but the mask got knocked sideways and he can't see so he just thinks fuck it and shoves it up onto his head.

"Bob!" he springs up and launches himself onto Bob, scrabbling at the bar and grinning like a maniac. "What the fuck, man."

Bob endures his climbing act with typical stoicism. "Been hearing about you guys." He eyes Frank. "You look fucking stupid in that mask."

Frank grins ear-to-ear at him and steals a swig of Bob's lager. Bob rolls his eyes and reclaims his beer. "So you read the comics? You know I'm fucking Fun Ghoul, right?"

"Way to rock the secret identity," Bob says, deadpan. "I didn't know you played."

"I didn't. I mean — I used to, but I hadn't in ages. Hey, you should've come out there with us."

"You've already got a drummer," he says.

"Kitty's awesome. But she's got her crew already, you know? Shit, Bob." He can't help grinning to see him again, though he feels a twinge at the thought of Bob's apartment and those dracs all over it. At least it doesn't seem like he got in any trouble over it. "You still working for the Blight?" Frank asks.

Bob looks around, shrugs. "Gotta pay the bills," he says. "It's not so bad. Anyway, do I look like I'm about to go paint bugs all over the place? You got plenty of people into that shit, Spidey over there for instance, or those guys," Bob nods at a group of dudes in white suits and masks.

"A ha ha, that's fucking awesome," Frank says. They're dressed like the draculoids out of the comics, white masks dripping red vampire teeth and black wigs over what look like pretty decent replicas of the actual D.R.A.C. uniform. Frank hopes they stole them. "That's straight out of Gee's fucking comics!" Frank says, squinting across the bar at them. "Bob, fuck, I gotta piss. But I'll catch you after the show, right? You have to meet Gee, seriously." He ruffles Bob's hair and darts into the bathroom.

The draculoids are sitting in a corner when Frank passes back through the bar. They're all watching him kind of intently, and pulls his Frankenstein mask down. It's a little creepy, considering.

"Gee, check it out, there're fucking draculoids out there!" he says as he comes back on stage.

"What? Fuck!" Gerard looks panicked for a second.

"No, costumes, you idiot. Fucked up vampire teeth and everything." He pulls the sheet aside and grabs Gerard's hand. They both peep round the screen at the crowd, and Frank tries to point to the guys in the corner. They're hard to see, though, and the kids down front start whooping and screaming at them, which is kind of distracting. Gerard looks wide-eyed for a second, then waves at them quickly before pulling Frank back behind the curtain.

"Shit. Did you see those kids?" He's shaking, Frank realises, and suddenly Frank's stomach drops too. It's been such a whirlwind, the last day or so, that he's hardly had time to feel nervous about the show itself.

But now he looks at Gerard and Gerard looks back at them, and there's a sudden _oh fuck_ realization hanging in the air between them. This is it. They're going to stand on this stage and they're going to have to perform to that crowd — that horrifyingly big crowd, that's got denser and rowdier in just the few minutes since Frank went to piss, and okay, he's not even going to think about how they're planning this to be broadcast live _on purpose_ — and as if that's not enough they're trying to start a revolution or something, too.

"Fuck," Frank says. "Let's — come on." He drags Gerard back and down to the basement, where the others are already waiting. Mad Gear's right next door — he can hear them laughing, and any other time he'd want to meet them, but right now what he wants is a drink. Shit. He looks over at Gerard, then at Ray, who's got sipping from a bottle of beer, and Mikey who... oh, thank fuck for Mikey, who's got a cup of coffee in each hand. He passes one to Frank and one to Gerard, then ruffles Gerard's hair.

"You ready to do this?" Mikey asks in a low voice.

"Yeah. Yeah. Fuck." Gerard leans into him, and Mikey puts his arm around Gerard's shoulder, gives him a quick squeeze. "Can we, like... have a band meeting, or something? Can we get everyone down here?"

It takes a few minutes to find everyone, and Frank finishes his mug of coffee and is halfway through a second when Brian comes in, Bob and Gabe right behind him. Frank catches Bob's eye and Bob raises his eyebrows back at him, but hey, if Bob wants to be in on it that's awesome.

"Right, so," says Gerard, looking momentarily flustered, then he pulls it together. "Let's go over it all one more time. Pony?"

"Lookouts on all the streets, a few blocks out. They've all got scanners too. If there's any patrols coming this way we should hear about it in time to barricade the doors at least. Chances of getting out are pretty fucking slim. Hope you're ready for a firefight," ze says wryly, looking at Gerard. He nods. They've all got their rayguns, and it's not just because it's part of their costume. Pony continues, "Good news is, dracs are mostly down around the Awards. Korse's cocksure we're gunning for him, but buzz on the drac channels has it we're gonna go for him _mano a mano_ , not remotely."

"We've got a feed from there," Gabe says. He's got his stupid fursuit mask pushed back so it hangs down his back and they can see him as he talks. "Red carpet's rolled out, it's wall to wall celebrities. You sure you don't want me down there? I got a tux and everything." Jamia punches him in the arm. "Yeah, yeah. So I saw Korse and Sato going up the red carpet. Nice suit."

"What about the broadcast?" Gerard says, bringing him back to the point.

"We were up on the roof testing the antenna this afternoon. You want me to conf Pete in?"

"Do it," Gerard says, and they all wait while Gabe sets up a laptop on one of the kegs and Pete's face comes on screen. He's looking fucking manic.

"Hey, dudes," Pete says. "This is going to be fucking sweet. Tell Max to keep camera one zoomed in tight if she can."

"I'm right here," Max says, pushing forward. "Is the signal okay?"

"Yeah, it's all good." Pete asks a hundred fucking questions, and it's all too technical for Frank, so he zones out and watches Gerard. Gerard's nodding along, chewing on a fingernail, and looking like he at least mostly understands all the shit about line-of-sight and encrypted streams and how Pete's managed to hook into the BLI1 broadcast from his data center. Whatever, they've planned this thing out so well by now that they're not gonna make any difference talking about it now.

"Alright," Gerard says, cutting them off. "How much time do we have?"

Brian speaks up from the back corner, where he's been leaning against the wall. "About twenty minutes," he says.

"You all know what you're doing?"

They all nod, and Pony says, "Sure, baby, I know all the ropes. I'm head groupie."

Gerard opens his mouth to protest, but Pony says, "Anyone else here fucking the bassist _and_ the lead guitarist?" and that settles it. Thank fuck, because Frank's heard Gerard's lecture about groupies twice already today.

"I wanna get a good spot out there," Jamia says. "You with me, 'Licia?"

"Sure," Alicia says. "Stay off that foot 'til you go on," she says sternly, pointing at Frank before she and Jamia head on upstairs. Frank pulls a face at her retreating back.

Everyone else starts breaking up to do whatever they've got to do, Gabe heading for the office, Bob and Brian heading out to keep an eye on things, Max for the sound booth. Pony sticks around, and starts joking with Ray and Mikey about what hir duties as head groupie might involve, but Frank tunes them out because once everyone's dispersed Gerard stops looking like he's leading a revolution and starts looking kind of queasy.

"You okay?" Frank says in a low voice.

Gerard shakes his head jerkily. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he says.

"Shit. You need a bucket?" Frank looks around quickly, but there's not one handy, so he grabs Gerard by the hand and drags him to the bathroom. There's a separate one down here, at least, for the bands — he doesn't think it'd be a good idea to take Gerard up into the Pit right now.

Gerard doesn't go for a cubicle, though, he just heads for the sink and runs the water, splashing it on his face. "Fuck," he says. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"I thought you were going to be sick," Frank says.

Gerard swallows, looking as if he's considering it for a minute. "Maybe," he admits. "I don't know."

"Just so you know, I will hold your hair back but you're not allowed to fucking barf on me."

Gerard barks out a laugh at that, then pushes himself back from the sink and stares at Frank. "Frank..." he says. "We're — this show. It's... it's going to be huge."

"Yeah, that's the _idea_ ," Frank says. And look, it's not like he's not nervous, but even if his stomach is kind of butterfly-ish, it just makes him kind of tense and kind of short-tempered. He's not actually freaking out like Gerard is. "You're the one who wanted it to be fucking huge."

"I... yeah, fuck. Fuck. What was I thinking? Frankie," he says, wide-eyed, then he stumbles toward Frank and grabs him in a hug that's painfully tight.

"Hey, hey." Frank hugs him back. "Ow, okay, ease off, Gee. It'll be fine. Hey, you want a cigarette?" He fumbles in his pockets for the half-empty pack he knows he's got, and Gerard nods. "Okay," Frank says, lighting two and passing one to Gerard. "It'll be fine."

Frank tries to change the subject, to talk about the artwork on the big screen upstairs, give Gerard something to think about other than the show, but it's fucking pointless. Gerard hardly answers, and by the time he's finished his cigarette he's just standing wild-eyed and looking freaked out. Frank rolls his eyes at that, because he _totally called it_. He knew this was going to happen.

"Hey, Gee," he says, and steps up to him, putting his hands on either side of his face and pulling him in for a kiss. "You want me to take your mind off it?"

Gerard manages to get out a half-hearted "Wh—" before Frank's pushing him back against the door, kissing deeper to stop him talking. Gee's kind of doing a stunned flounder impression, but it doesn't last long, and pretty soon he's opening up, kissing Frank back just as deeply, and his hands come round to rest on Frank's ass. Nice, Frank thinks, and presses against him. Gee's not hard, but it won't take long to get him that way. Frank finds Gerard's nipple through his tshirt and pinches at it, and Gerard lets out a little whimper as his hips jerk against Frank's.

"Thought so," Frank says, pulling back about half an inch and grinning. He slides his hand down and starts to work at Gerard's fly.

"You thought — what?" Gerard says.

"Thought I might be able to distract you with backstage blowjobs," Frank says, dropping to his knees and pulling at Gerard's stupid tight jeans so they're down around his thighs.

"Oh!" Gerard says, and his hands flutter uselessly for a moment before he lets them rest on Frank's head. Yeah, that's right. Frank knew this'd work. Gerard's at least half hard, and Frank takes the head of Gerard's dick into his mouth, running his tongue round the crown and reaching his hand back to play with Gerard's balls 'til he's all the way there.

"Frank, Frank," Gerard says, and Frank looks up, his mouth full. "You're... oh my god, we have to be on stage in fifteen minutes."

Frank pulls off just enough to say, "Less talking, more enjoying," and gets back to work. He _loves_ sucking Gerard's cock, no question about it, and he's been getting a lot of practice lately so he can go down really fucking deep. He does it, and Gerard moans and pushes his fingers through Frank's hair. Frank'd be fine with Gerard grabbing his hair and fucking his mouth, he's pretty sure, but Gerard never does that and they haven't really talked about it. Whatever, it's all good.

Frank's got his own fly undone and his dick out and he's jerking himself off with one hand while the other's wrapped around the base of Gerard's cock, and he's far enough into it that he's just going to ignore whatever the fuck Gerard's babbling, something about _all those kids, fuck, so many of them_ , and Frank thinks Gerard's maybe got his priorities a little fucked up, but then again, maybe not.

"Frankie," Gerard groans, and his hips stutter, and okay, that's not something Frank's going to ignore because he knows what Gerard sounds like when he's about to come, but he doesn't actually stop what he's doing, just lets Gerard's come pulse hot and bitter into his mouth, and swallows what he can before he's coming himself, falling against Gerard's legs and holding on as he spurts all over Gerard's boots.

"Jesus," Frank says when he's got his breath back, and his voice sounds kind of raw, but then he's not the one who's going to be singing up there. "Help me up?" His legs are kind of numb from kneeling and his foot's still fucking sore. This is probably not what Alicia hand in mind when she told him to keep off it.

Gerard helps pull him upright, and then wraps himself around Frank and pulls him into a tight hug, their jeans still pushed down round their hips and their dicks just hanging out there. Frank lets himself relax into it for a minute, breathing Gerard's smell and enjoying the soft post-orgasmic warmth of him. But they do have to get their pants back on and get back out there soon. He doesn't say anything, because that might set Gerard off again, but he does try to pull his pants up without actually, like, letting go.

"Love you, Frankie," Gerard mutters into his hair.

"Love you too, you stupid fucker," Frank says. "You ready to do this thing?"

"Yeah," Gerard says, and takes a deep breath. "Yeah."

"You'd probably better wear pants, then," Frank says, and disengages enough to help Gerard pull his jeans back up and tuck himself in, laughing as Gerard wiggles his ass to get the jeans zipped up, then hands him some paper towels to clean up the mess on his boots. "Alright?" he says.

"Let's do it," Gerard says.

When they get back to the basement where the others are, Pony takes one look at them and bursts out laughing. Frank feels himself blushing and wipes his mouth self-consciously, but then he thinks fuck it, that was a _totally_ necessary band-related duty, and it's not as if anyone else is going to do it. "Shut the fuck up," Frank says, and flips hir the bird.

"Five minutes," says Brian, poking his head round the door.

"Shit," says Ray, and everyone has a moment where they look at each other, kind of panicked. Gerard breaks it, though, by saying, "Group hug?" like a huge dork.

"Seriously?" says Kitty.

"Yeah," Gerard says, "Come on. We're gonna go out there and change the fucking world." He grabs Mikey and Frank, one arm around each, and Mikey grabs Ray and Frank grabs Kitty and drags her in whether she likes it or not. Pony hangs back, but that's alright... this is a band thing.

There's a moment where Frank feels like someone should say something, like they should make a speech while they're all in this huddle, but Gerard just pulls them all close and squeezes them, and then he says, "Let's fucking do it."

They all let go and high five each other, then file out to go play the fucking show of their lives.

* * *

LynZ narrows her eyes at the kids out in the street as she approaches the Pit. She rode past some lookouts a couple of blocks back, one of them talking into a radio, and now, as she gets closer, she can see loose knots of kids heading for the show. They're excited, walking fast and talking with their hands.

She pulls down an alley and cuts her engine, kicking the stand out and taking stock. There's a side entrance, one where bands can load in — she remembers it from when she played here, before — but tonight she's just going to go in the front door, like any of the rest of the kids.

It's been a fucking long time. She's still not quite sure how Doc talked her into it, and she's still not quite sure it's a good idea, but she's here now. She peels off a few bucks at the door, gets a spider stamp on her hand, and heads on in.

A kid at the door shoves a zine into her hands, a direct action pamphlet about how to fuck with the dracs and the company without getting caught. She tucks it in her pocket to look at later.

There's a familiar smell of anticipation and beer inside, a dull roar of voices over the music that's playing, a surprising crush of people in all kinds of costumes. Halloween, of course — she'd kind of forgotten. There's the usual zombies and vampires but most of the kids are Killjoys. She sees at least three girls with hair dyed bright Party Poison red, and there are masks everywhere, ovals of cardboard painted bright colors and held on with loops of elastic. She even sees a sexy draculoid girl in white bustier and facepaint. For all this is meant to be a Mad Gear show, it sure seems like most of the kids are here for the openers.

She heads stage left, pushing through the looser edges of the crowd, down along the side until she's got an okay view of the stage, not too far back but not deep in the crush either. She can hear the band behind the screen they've got up, a momentary screech of feedback and clatter of drums. Shouldn't be too long before they're on.

Kitty's up there somewhere, and LynZ knows exactly what she'll be doing: adjusting her kit, making sure her spare sticks are close at hand, snapping at anyone who asks her stupid questions and then apologizing for it. If LynZ were up there she'd be adjusting her guitar strap, stretching, putting on one last nervous coat of lipstick. Steve — Doc'd be slugging back a beer and making sure all his pedals are exactly how he likes them, and Jimmy — she can't help herself, and she pokes at it like a sore tooth — Jimmy'd be pulling faces, opening his mouth wide and poking his tongue out, pogoing up and down, and obsessively checking his mic.

She tries not to dwell on the past, but here at the Pit it all comes flooding back. She wonders whether Kitty's thinking the same thing. Fuck knows how she does it. LynZ doesn't think she could. It took enough badgering for Doc to talk her into even coming tonight. Kitty forgives easier than LynZ, though. Well, good for her. LynZ's not Kitty. Kitty's on stage with Gerard and his boys, and LynZ's here to watch the show. She's got a good spot, a bit of space around her, short people in front of her. She crosses her arms and settles in to wait.

* * *

The rumble of voices out beyond the stage becomes a roar. Gerard's mouth is suddenly dry, and he's frozen to the spot.

"Go," Frank says, pressing a kiss to his neck then pushing him in the small of the back, and Gerard stumbles up the last three stairs and onto the stage. He looks out at the crowd, at the sea of faces and raised hands, and he can't even process it. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, then opens them again.

He looks over at Frank, who's got his guitar slung over his shoulder and gives Gerard a thumbs-up and a wicked grin, and Gerard knows he'd be blushing if his heart wasn't already racing so hard. A quick glance at Ray, and Mikey, and Kitty, and each of them is in place. Everything hangs in suspended animation for a moment, and then the guitars come in, and he takes his mic off the stand and starts to sing.

He's rehearsed this. He knows it. The words have been looping in his mind for months, since before he knew what they were, the endless _na na na na na_ earworm that's been with him as long as he's been in the desert. This is what it was all about. And now he's singing it for real, and the kids are singing back at him. They know all the words already, and they're shouting them back at him. Ray catches his eye, raising his eyebrows like, "Can you believe it?" Gerard just grins and keeps singing.

He sees some faces he knows — kids from the skate shop, kids he saw at Gabe's whose names he didn't catch but who were there at the rehearsal, kids whose artwork he's seen on the streets and on the screen across the stage and in the glowing rectangle of Mikey's phone — and they're pushing up against the edge of the stage and reaching their hands out to him. He puts one foot up on the monitor wedge and reaches over to them, and they scream.

"Right here, right now," he growls, "All the way in Battery City, the little children raise their open filthy palms..."

One of the girls in front is crying, fuck, she's actually got tears running down her face. He sings to her for a line or two, 'til her friends on either side put their arms around her, and she turns away and presses her face into one of their shoulders.

These kids are fucking incredible. This is exactly what he wants to be doing, singing to them, showing them they can be extraordinary. Every single one of them is beautiful, courageous, and so fucking strong. He ends the song with his arms raised, a salute to them all.

* * *

They make it through "Na Na Na" and they're _good_. Not that Jamia didn't already know they weren't bad, but shit, this is beyond what she expected. She looks over at Alicia, gestures at her like _what the fuck, right?_ and Alicia shrugs right back at her like she agrees. Mostly Alicia's staring intently at the stage, watching the guitarists, frowning a tiny bit at the occasional flubbed note or whatever, but she seems mostly approving. Too fucking right.

"Come on," Jamia shouts, tugging on Alicia's sleeve. Alicia might be tall enough to see over everyone, but Jamia's sick of craning and she wants to get in closer. There's a full on fucking pit forming, hundreds of kids all crammed up against each other, moshing and slamming around, and Jamia wants to be in there screaming with them. Alicia holds back for a moment then gives in, following Jamia forward.

Jamia knows how to push through a crowd like this, working with her shoulder and sliding sideways between people, not heading directly for where she wants to be but zigzagging wherever the crush is a little less dense, grinning and waving at kids she recognizes from the rehearsals as she pushes past them. She keeps an eye on the stage as they start in on "Only Hope", grins as she sees Kitty launch in on the drums with her intent drummer-face appearing and disappearing as Jamia weaves between some tall assholes in hats. She's dragging Alicia down around the side, to push in nearer the front, when she just about trips over LynZ.

"LynZ!" she shouts, and LynZ's eyebrows shoot up and she shouts something back, but Jamia can't hear a fucking thing. "I thought you were back at the Springs," Jamia shouts. She was sure LynZ was going to stay there sulking, but what the fuck ever, it's good to see her. And it looks like she's getting into the show at least — she's actually looking all sort of misty-eyed at the song, not that Jamia'd call her on it or anything, but she's hugging her arms around her and looking like it's bringing shit up that Jamia doesn't normally see, so _that's_ interesting. Jamia looks away for a minute, taking in the crowd and the cluster of people against the wall in draculoid costumes. Now that's in fucking bad taste, what the actual fuck? They're just standing there in their masks and they're fucking creepy.

The song winds down, Kitty tapping out the last beats, and Jamia turns to say something to LynZ, but then a siren wail starts up and everyone starts to push forward as the band launches into the one they call "Planetary (GO!)". Wow, just fucking _wow_... she knew the kids at Gabe's place had their phones out and that it'd get on the tubes before the show, but seeing this crowd here, she can tell that every single one of these kids has streamed it and memorized the fucking set list, and they know what's happening, because they're starting to bounce up and down, all of them moving in unison and shouting along as Gerard sings.

She grabs LynZ with one hand and Alicia with the other and drags them into the pit. She looks back over her shoulder at LynZ and screams, "Get up and go!" and LynZ grins back at her, lifting her hands up and starting to dance with the beat.

Jamia flings her arms around the girls, her fucking crew, and bangs her head, letting her hair fall in her eyes, letting the beat pound through her. There's kids pressed against her on every side, and she's bouncing in time with them, feeling the press of their bodies up against hers, their sweat all over her, the stink and the roar and the heat of it all. She actually gets a crowdsurfer in the face at one point, but she just laughs and lets it all roll over her. Shit, it's been too long.

* * *

Ray's smiling so hard he thinks his face might crack. He looks across the stage at Frank, who grins at him and pokes his tongue out. Ray drops a pick and swears, fumbles for another one, and comes back in on the beat in unison with Frank, laughing. He darts a look across the stage to where Frank's bent intently over his guitar, sweaty hair all over his face, fingers moving on the frets like they rehearsed.

They're halfway through a five song set and Ray feels like he's flying. This is what he wanted — what he dreamed, all those years while he was working that shitty cubicle job. The jam sessions, the guitar lessons, the session work he did was nothing to this: being on the stage, hearing his music pounding out across the crowd, seeing them moving in time to it.

He can hardly believe they've come together like this. All the rehearsals and the bickering and Gerard's uncertainty and the endless list of things they had to get done to end up here... somehow it didn't seem quite real. That's Gerard's weird superpower, he guesses. Like that first road trip out into the desert — everything's been half a dream since then, all hallucinogenic colors and bright sun and music and endless highways and Mikey and Pony and Max and a weird swelling feeling somewhere in his chest that feels too good to be true. And yet here he is, on the stage with all of them, and it feels like a dream but it _isn't_ , there's not going to be any alarm clock to wake him up from the dream.

Gerard's stalking long-legged across the front of the stage, his red hair brilliant in the stage lights, haranguing the audience, spitting out the words to "Planetary (GO!)" while Kitty and Mikey pound out the beat and Frank and Ray slam out their parts on either side.

They hit the last chord and the lights drop, catching Gerard for one last moment with his mic raised up over his head, before he drops his hands to his sides and shakes his shoulders, loosening up for a moment between songs. Ray grabs a gulp of water, quickly, and puts the bottle back on top of his amp.

Gerard looks over at Ray, then out to the crowd, and he speaks into his microphone, saying, "This song's for an amazing kid, a fucking amazing, brave kid called Ro. It's called Save Yourself."

Gerard nods to Ray, and Ray nods back. This is it, the one they've been fighting about, the one they've finally got figured out. He feels calm. It's going to work. He takes a deep breath, and comes in with the riff, the hard guitar licks that open the song. Gerard lifts his head up as the lights come back, and screams into his mic.

* * *

There's only a tiny area sidestage, barely hidden from the audience, little more than a landing at the top of the stairs. Pony's got a spot there, though, and ze can see the whole band, and some of the crowd, and the cameras overhead pointed at the stage. Max is on the far side in her booth, giving Pony a cheeky grin and a thumbs-up when they make eye contact.

The fact that Pony's got a prime viewing location to watch hir boys play... well, ze's not going to complain if Ray's ass is _right there_. Mikey's quiet and intense onstage, focusing on his sparkling bass guitar, hardly looking up or moving, but Ray's getting right into it, banging his head so his hair flies around, standing with his legs planted wide and the muscles in his thighs standing out against the denim of his jeans as he shreds his way into "Save Yourself".

For all the trouble it caused, the song's _good_. The guitar's tight, good old-fashioned rock ‘n' roll, denim and gasoline and teen rebellion, and when Party Poison comes in he belts out the words with a nasal sneer that's every parent's nightmare. _I hope you're ready for a firefight_. He's fucking nailed it. Not just this song, but the whole set. It's a call to fucking action. Pony can feel it buzzing in hir veins, can feel waves of it coming off the kids in the crowd too. They want a fucking revolution? This is it. _We're never leaving this place alive, but if we sing these words we'll never die_. This shit's going out over the waves right now, BLI-fucking-One, and the whole world's watching. Nothing's gonna be the same after this, and Pony was _there_ , it's hir fucking boys on stage, and ze's so proud ze could burst.

Ze looks over at Max, to see if she's getting it too, but Max is frowning at something, tapping at the keys on her netbook, and doesn't see Pony's grin, so ze goes back to watching the band.

 _Save yourself, and I'll hold them back tonight_. Every single one of them on that stage is putting every ounce of themselves into it. If someone'd told hir yesterday that it was going to be like this, when they were all bitching about it and calling each other names, ze would've laughed at them, but they did it, somehow. It's a fucking good song. It's an anthem, and the kids know it.

Then the song's over, and Gerard starts talking, walking around the stage and shaking his sweaty hair like a wet dog, cradling the mic in both hands and talking into it, low and intense, looking out at the kids and pinning them with gaze as he speaks to them.

"They told us we had to grow up, that we had to get jobs and be like them," he says. The kids shout and boo, and he waits a moment until they quiet down, then he says, "They want us to wear their uniforms and work for their money and get up every morning for a paycheck and a vending machine full of fucking pills. Well, I've got something to tell you all. I've got a fucking message for each and every one of you." His eyes are kind of crazy, he's burning with some kind of intensity Pony's never fucking seen before, and ze thought ze'd seen him being intense one or two times over the last few weeks. But this is Party Poison as the fucking messiah, come out of the desert with a message for all the boys and girls as he raises his voice. "I refuse to grow up," he shouts, and the kids scream back at him, and he says it again, "I refuse to grow up!"

The music starts up, a low rhythm, and he keeps talking over it, walking around the stage again. "You remember when you were a kid, everything was amazing, everything was in technicolor? I'm here to tell you it doesn't have to change. You don't have to be the kind of grownup they say you have to be. I want all of you, each and every one of you, to keep being amazing. Hang on to that wonder, to the joy and the fucking color. Make art. _Be wonderful_."

He's timed it just right, and he comes in with the words from "Kids From Yesterday" right on time. Pony thought ze was a fucking cynic, but ze's sold, and so are all the kids out there if the noise coming off the crowd and the push of the kids against the stage is anything to go by.

Ze looks across to where Max is, but the booth's empty. Sound's fine though, so Pony lets hirself get caught back up in the music, even sings along on the final chorus. Ze was a kid once, rollerskates and grazed knees and summer sunshine without the taste of acid in hir throat, before all the shit went down, and the song brings hir youth right back. Nobody notices hir wiping hir eyes. Fuck, they're amazing.

* * *

They come tumbling off the stage when they're done and Frank finds himself crushed in a hug that turns suddenly R-rated as Gerard shoves his tongue halfway down Frank's throat. "Mmph!" Frank says, emphatically, because that's Gerard's boner pressed against him, and it's not like it wasn't obvious that Gerard was enjoying the performance — what, he looked, okay? — but Frank seems to recall they just got off less than an hour ago and besides, the whole band's _right there_ , so this is maybe not the right moment.

"Oh my god, Frankie," Gerard says, then he spots Mikey and grabs hold of him and next thing they're all glommed together in a big group hug again. It comes easier this time, they're all riding the same fucking high together. Frank gets an elbow in the face somehow but he doesn't care too much.

"That was the shit," Frank says, talking into someone's armpit. "Right? I mean, it wasn't just me."

Ray shakes his head, hair dripping sweat everywhere. "Not just you," he says.

"We did it," Gerard agrees. "Did you _see_ them?"

"Did you see _you_?" Frank counters.

"Your boy's got hidden talents," Pony says.

"What, they're not fucking hidden," Frank says, and Pony laughs at him. Fuck hir, anyway, Gerard's talents are obvious to anyone with eyes, what the fuck. He says so, and Gerard blushes.

There's chanting from the crowd, _one more song_ and _uno mas_ , but there aren't any more songs, and besides, there's still Mad Gear to come. Frank actually feels bad for them for a moment. It's fucking _Mad Gear and the Missile Kid_ , and Frank's pretty sure their openers just stole the show, and that's just beyond fucked up. And simultaneously awesome, of course.

He doesn't have time to worry about it because there's some techs trying to get past them to fix up the stage, so they all go stumbling down the stairs, laughing and slapping each other on the back and tripping over each other as they keep trying to tell each other how fucking awesome it was.

Frank strips his sodden shirt off the moment they get to the basement, and grabs a towel and tries to dry himself off. Nobody else thought to bring a towel, but Frank's a sharing sort of guy, so when he's done wiping all his sweat up he shoves it in Gerard's face.

"Hey!" Gerard says, his voice muffled, but he starts to rub at his hair, turning the towel red.

"That was fucking aweshit!" comes a voice from the doorway, and Jamia and Alicia come in. Then LynZ comes in behind them, holding back a little at the door, as if she's not sure she's welcome.

"Hey," she says, and Gerard pulls the towel off his head and looks over in surprise. "Great show." She offers him a high five, then laughs as he grabs her in a sweaty hug. "Eww," she says.

"You made it!" Gerard says, grinning.

"Yeah, guess so," she says. "Doc told me I was being a moron, promised he'd kick my ass all the way to Bat City if I didn't come. You did good," she adds, seriously.

"You think? Hey, did you see the kids, all the kids in the —" Gerard waves his hands, trying to say _all the kids dressed up in costumes like I drew in my comics_ , Frank figures.

"Got yourself quite the army," LynZ agrees.

"Uh, guys," Mikey says. He's got his phone out and he's looking at something. " _Guys_."

"What is it, Mikes?" Gerard asks, still grinning.

"You want to, uh..." Mikey's face isn't giving anything away, but there's something in his voice, and Frank knows him well enough by now to know there's something wrong. Gerard hears it too, obviously, and he's there beside Mikey in a flash, looking over his shoulder.

Mikey reads off the screen. "Pete — he says the video cut out." His phone buzzes again, and Mikey's eyes widen a fraction as he pokes at it. "He says Gabe's not answering his texts or calls or anything."

"He's in Brian's office," Ray says, frowning. "Isn't he?"

Frank thinks fast. There's no way to check without going there themselves. Brian's office is upstairs, at the other end of the club. The club that's _full of screaming kids_ right now, and suddenly that seems a long way away.

Everyone looks at Gerard, who looks back at them and says, "I don't know. I was on stage with you guys."

"Gee," Frank says. "We should —"

"Max," Pony says, suddenly, cutting Frank off, and everyone looks at hir. "Something went wrong. She went to check on it during Kids. Shit." Ze's moving already, racing out the door. Everyone stands frozen for a second, then Ray chases after hir, and Frank has to grab his shirt and try and pull it back on over his head while he runs after them, out into the club.

* * *

There's hands, hands everywhere, and for a bewildering moment Gerard's completely trapped by a circle of kids, all of them reaching out, some holding markers and asking him to sign things, some trying to get photographs or video, some of them just crying and talking a mile a minute, and Gerard can't make out a word of it. Frank's at his side, shouting at the kids to let them through, and Gerard's mind's gone blank, fear and urgency pushing him forward without any actual rational thought.

Suddenly Brian's there, and Frank's friend Bob, and Brian's saying, "What's going on?"

"Max," Gerard says. "Gabe — Pete says they're — we've got to —"

"We need to get to the office," Frank shouts, trying to make himself heard over everyone else.

Brian frowns at them, but Bob just nods, and he manages to push open a path through the crowd, and finally, _finally_ , they manage to get moving, following Pony who's racing ahead, less hampered by the fans than the rest of them.

Gerard pulls up hard at the door to Brian's office. Pony's blocking the way, and past hir Gerard can see Max standing with a raygun drawn, over the still-smoking bodies of two dead dracs.

"Fuck," Gerard says, and Frank echoes him, right behind.

"Max," Pony says. "Baby."

Max looks at hir blankly for a moment, then puts the raygun down on Brian's desk. "Gabe," she says. "They got Gabe. The video —" she gestures at the laptop on the desk. "I think about half the set made it out. I, I don't know. I saw something going wrong from the booth, so I came down, and..."

The dracs are wearing masks, like the draculoids from the comic. They're the draculoids they saw earlier, Gerard realises. They came here in costume. For a horrible moment he thinks that maybe they're just kids, dressed up for Halloween, but then he remembers that Gabe's missing, that the broadcast was fucked up. Fuck. And Max — her face is pretty blank, but she just shot two guys and they're lying there on the floor right now.

They all move into the room and Gerard has to actually step over one of the guy's legs. He reaches his hand out towards Max and she just looks at him and he freezes, not sure if he should touch her or not. Then Max looks over at Ray, and Ray steps right over the bodies on the floor and goes straight to her, pulls her in close and holds her. She struggles for a moment then gives up, buries her head against his sweaty t-shirt. Gerard pulls back the hand he'd reached out and bites at his nails, instead. "Fuck," he says again. "How did this happen?"

Mikey's got his phone out, and he's talking to Pete. "Yeah, I'll — wait, shit, it's gone. Uh..." He looks around and sees Max's netbook, dropped on the floor, and picks it up. He opens it on Brian's desk, and Pete's face comes up on the screen, pixelated at first then evening out.

Pete looks at them all, leaning in close to the camera, and says, "What the fuck dudes, seriously. I got, like, three songs then something cut out from your end."

"Dracs," Mikey says. "They — I think they got Gabe. He's gone, and the laptop he was using." There are cables just lying unplugged, all over the place.

"Fucking — _fuck_ ," says LynZ in the background.

Mikey picks up the netbook and holds it so the camera pans across the floor, the dracs lying there, still masked but with charred marks on their white suits where Max got them.

"Jesus," says Pete. "Do you think they — do you think Gabe's okay?"

Mikey just shakes his head, echoing what all of them are thinking. Gerard's stomach is churning. Fuck, this is a mess. They had lookouts everywhere, but it's not like anyone expected the dracs to dress like something out of a comic book. It's not like BLI to go undercover; sirens and megaphones are more their style.

"So you'll want to see this. After your feed cut out, this came through on the same channel." The screen blanks for a moment, then cuts to a BLI logo for an instant, creepy face smiling out at them. Then that's replaced by a slick-looking guy holding a FACT News microphone, standing outside the theatre where the BLI awards are being held. The red carpet's visible behind him.

"Everyone's talking about the technical glitch that interrupted tonight's special event," he says. "We managed to talk to the head of the D.R.A.C., who was here at the Better Living Awards ceremony."

Korse appears, standing against a backdrop of BLI logos, speaking into the cluster of microphones pointed at him. "This shows just how dangerous they are," he says. "This was an attempt to strike at the very heart of what Better Living stands for. I'm informed that our operatives have shut them down for now, but let me be clear: each and every one of us needs to be on the lookout for this sort of criminal activity. We are setting up a hotline and instituting tough new measures against zone-based insurgency. In the meantime, Secretary Sato has given the D.R.A.C her full support, and I will be taking a _personal_ interest in tracking down the ringleaders of this movement." He looks at the FACT News camera as he says that, and there's a gleam in his eye. "The security of our city, and the safety of all our Better Living employees, is of the utmost importance."

"What the actual fuck," Ray says.

Frank says, "Fucking _bullshit_ ," and looks like he wants to punch the screen, which shows the reporter again, before cutting back to Pete.

"I don't get it," Bob says. "If he knew enough to send these guys here —" he looks at the dracs on the floor, and nudges one of them with his toe, "— why didn't he just shut the whole thing down? He could've had all your asses if he wanted them."

"All the enforcement activity was downtown," Pete says. "I could've sworn they didn't know this was going down at the Pit."

Gerard's trying to think, and it's hard while everyone's talking over each other. "Shut up," he says, covering his ears, not that it helps any. They quiet down a little, though, and look at him. "It's like he said," Gerard says. "It's personal. It's like a game to him, watching what we do, what _I_ do, keeping us on the run."

Bob looks skeptical, but it's Brian who actually says, "Bullshit. You don't think this is a political move? They do these crackdowns every few years, every time someone's pushing for power at the top."

"Sato's approval ratings are up," Pete says, pulling the figures up on the laptop's screen.

"You seriously think this is about Secretary Sato running for governor?" Ray asks, but of course it is, of _course_ it fucking is. It's about Gerard _and_ it's about the campaign. Gerard remembers all those meetings Korse and Sato used to have, coming up with ways to make sure everyone got the BLI brand message. If Korse can use Gerard for that, use Gerard's art for his own purposes... that's just the kind of fucked up thing he'd do. It's twisted and vindictive and bordering on fucking insane and it's just like the sort of ridiculous shit Korse had pulled way back when, an outrageous, audacious lie so tangled in cynicism it becomes some kind of surreal performance.

"The personal _is_ political, baby," LynZ says, mockingly.

"It doesn't _matter_ ," Gerard says, knowing he sounds kind of hysterical, but a minute ago he was on stage and now he's standing over dead bodies and Gabe's missing and Max is still tucked against Ray's side, looking shaken as fuck, and they're all just standing around talking about politics. "It doesn't fucking matter. We need to get out of here."

* * *

Mikey grabs the netbook and helps Ray unplug as much of the tech gear as they can manage. Max stands by wordlessly, but she puts her hand out and takes a tangled bunch of cables and comes with them as Bob helps them push back through the crowd.

It's amazing how quickly they get all their shit packed back into Ray's car and the Skeleton Crew's van, with everyone pitching in. Mikey sees some of the Mad Gear guys going the other way as he wrestles an amp out the side door. Of course — they're still playing, huh. But though most of the kids are staying inside to see them, some are starting to disperse, too, small groups coming out by the front door and standing around, up and down the block. Mikey spots Travie in amongst them, and there's a bunch of the kids from the skate shop and the warehouse, but others are strangers.

Mikey's phone beeps. It's Pete. _dracs hedn ur way._ Mikey texts back, _thx_.

He looks up to see Pony, radio in hand. "Got word from the lookouts," ze says. "Starting to see a little action city-side. Few miles out, but coming in fast."

"Pete said," Mikey says, nodding in confirmation. Word's spreading, and the kids outside are tying bandannas across their faces, pulling masks and goggles down over their eyes. One of them bends down to tie a bootlace, then stands up and sees Mikey watching, and throws a funny little salute their way.

"They're —" says Gerard, putting down the cymbals he's carrying and staring at them. "They're staying to fight." He looks like he wants to stay with them. Mikey's not surprised.

"You wanna stay?" Mikey asks, knowing the answer already. He stands a little straighter, feeling his muscles tense and relax as he thinks of all the moves he's been practicing, thinks about having to use them for real, real soon.

Before Gerard can say it, Pony cuts in. "Noway, Party Poison. You're hitting the highway so you can fight another day," ze says. "You got a message needs to get out."

"But —" Gerard says. "Shit." Pony's right, and though Gerard fights it for a moment, Mikey sees the instant he makes up his mind. "Alright," he says. "Yeah, fuck, we've got to keep spreading the word."

"Come on, we're done," says Jamia, picking up the cymbals Gerard dropped and shoving them into the Skeleton Crew's van, and suddenly everyone's heading for their vehicles. Kitty gives Frank a quick squeeze and follows Jamia to the van, and LynZ kisses Pony and ruffles Gerard's hair, calling him a crazy motherfucker, before pulling her helmet on and heading for her bike. Mikey lets Ray pull him into the Trans Am, and they're off, Gerard behind the wheel with Frank beside him, Mikey and Ray and Pony and Max all squashed into the back.

Pony's radio keeps stuttering out reports from the kids on lookout. "Take a left," ze says after a few blocks. Mikey looks right as Gerard takes the turn, and sees a distant flicker of blue-and-white patrol lights, but Pony's lookouts are good, and the road they take is clear. When they hit a checkpoint, Mikey sees the guards in the hut watching television as they blast straight through the barrier, too slow getting up to chase after them. "You got some luck, dustbaby," Pony says.

"Not really," Gerard says, not turning around to speak, keeping his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road. "Mikey, can you check in with Pete? See if he's got any word on where they took Gabe, see if anyone knows what's going on."

Mikey nods, and gets his phone out. _sup_ , he texts to Pete.

 _dracs evrywhere_ , comes back fast, followed by _brb_.

Mikey texts him again while he waits, _lmk if u hear nething about gabe, thnk gerd wants 2 bust him out_. He settles in to wait for Pete to finish whatever he's doing. He's probably working ten things at once right now, keeping track of the patrols and setting up diversions and shit.

Eventually his phone buzzes with, _sry bli lookin 2 close had 2 patch up security_ then _dont no where gabe is yet ill get back to you_.

"Pete's working on it," Mikey says, for Gerard's benefit. Gerard nods.

They're almost through the borderzones when Mikey's phone makes a sad noise and says, "No Service." He blinks in surprise. That doesn't usually happen... Pete's pirate SIMs can hook into anything, they're more reliable even than BLI Cellular, and Mikey can't ever remember driving through a dead spot before, not even out in the desert. He looks out the window, but it's not as if he could see actual antennas or anything anyway. He turns his phone off then on again, but the message is still there, _No Service_.

Ray's looking worriedly at him across the back seat. "No service," Mikey says.

"What?" says Frank, turning around in the front seat.

"I think... I think they got Pete," Mikey says. "He said they were too close, then he said he'd get back to me, and then this cut out."

"Let me see," Frank says. Mikey hands him the phone, and Frank starts poking at it, not that that'll do any good.

Pony gets on the radio, presses the talk button and says, "All you motorbabies take care, we got the Blight down on our comms," but nothing comes back but static.

"Fuck," says Gerard. "Fucking _fuck_." He grips the wheel like he wants to punch something. "We needed him," Gerard says, and it sounds selfish but it's true. Pete was their messenger, he was at the heart of it all. First Gabe, and now Pete, Mikey thinks. Fuck, he can just imagine the press conference with Korse smugly congratulating himself on their arrests, and he knows Gerard is thinking the same thing.

"We needed Pete to get the music out," Frank says. "Fuck, how are we going to get it out now?"

"None of the transmitters are going to work," Ray says. "If Pete's server's gone, and our whole network's fucked..." He trails off, and chews worriedly on his lip.

Max has been quiet all this time, squashed between Ray and Pony in the back seat, but now she wriggles around, trying to get her hand down between them, and when she pulls it out she's holding a thumb drive. "Pony," she says, and holds it out to hir.

"You got some ones and zeroes there, babydoll?" Pony says, hir voice gentle.

"It's the show," Max says. "I was recording it in the booth. They — they stopped it going out." Her voice is tight, but urgent. "They stopped the transmission, but we've still got a copy. We've still got the music."

"One for the crash queens?" Pony asks.

Max nods.

"Aces."

"What?" Gerard says, turning around to look at them quickly over his shoulder. They're almost in the desert now, the road opening up in front of them, empty space to either side with just the odd gas station or cluster of bombed-out looking houses, and there's no traffic, no people at all, no sound but their voices and the growl of the engine.

"You need to get these shiny tunes out there, dustangel? Your signal's jammed, ones and zeroes'll get you nowhere. You're gonna have to do it old-school."

"Old-school how?" Frank says, twisting around in his seat again, trying to make out what ze's getting at.

Mikey's starting to get it, though. It comes to him with a sort of heavy certainty, and he knows what Pony's going to say even before ze starts to explain. "Hand to hand, analog and untraceable," Pony says. "You drop me off by the Springs, I'll get Keiko to dup this aweshit for you. Vinyl, twelve inch, just like the good old days. We hit up the crash queens, your tunes'll be everywhere in no time, and no drac'll be able to stop them."

"I want to come with you," Max says.

"We all will," says Gerard. "We can get it out there faster with all of us. Keiko knows me, she'll —"

"Noway," Pony says. "Springs'll be too hot for you boys. You better go hole up, leave this one to the Pony Express."

Then everyone's talking at once, and Mikey can't even hear himself over the sound of too many people crammed into a car, yelling over each other and the wind as they cruise down the highway. Ray and Frank and Gerard all trying to convince Pony that they're ready to take the risk, and Max starting to get shrill and hysterical, demanding that she be allowed to come along too.

"You _said_ , you said I could be a crash queen."

"Not tonight, sweetheart," Pony says, and wraps hir arms around Max, trying to hold her, but Max balls up her fists and punches Pony in the chest, struggling to get away.

"You _promised_." She's got tears rolling down her face.

"Hey, hey," Ray says, trying to be gentle, trying to take Max's hands and stop her from flailing around. He doesn't manage it, but between him and Pony, they do manage to hold on to her, hugging her between them.

"I can fly under the radar," Pony says over the top of Max's head, directing hir words to Ray, though they're all listening. "Alone. I can get in and out quick, and I know all the back ways. You Killjoys in your spidermobile are a fucking target, too big to ignore. Better for you to get back to your own place, hunker down, let someone who's not on a wanted poster get the job done. I'll get word back soon's I can, if I can get a signal through."

"What if you can't?" Mikey asks. His throat feels tight.

"Once I get your tunes duped, I'll hand them off to LynZ and her crew, start getting them out to everyone in the Springs, set up distro up and down Route Guano and back into the city, then I'll come straight on back."

"You'd better," Mikey says, leaning against hir.

"Are you sure?" says Gerard.

"You take care of each other, let me take care of myself," Pony answers.

They pull over at the turnoff to the Springs, and all of them get out. Max is tear-stained, but she's stopped freaking out, and she's standing alone, her arms wrapped tight round her chest. Pony sits sideways in the passenger seat, hir long legs poking out the open door as ze laces hir skates, the car's internal light spilling out onto the dark road making a pool of color in the darkness.

"I'll be back soon's as I can," ze says, again.

Gerard nods. "Tell LynZ we got out of the city okay? And thank her for coming to the show?"

"Sure thing, motor baby."

Frank's smoking a cigarette, but he drops it and stamps out the glowing butt as Pony stands up. He steps up and gives hir a hug, his arms slung low around Pony's hips, comically shorter than Pony on hir skates. "Be safe," he says.

Gerard steps up next, and he just says, "Thanks," and squeezes Pony tight for a second before letting hir go. It's not the time for making speeches.

Pony turns to Mikey and Ray, and they go to hir wordlessly. Mikey buries his face against the side of hir neck, and he feels Ray's hand against Pony's back and puts his own hand over Ray's. They all cling to each other for a long minute. None of the others says anything, and the only sound Mikey can hear is their breathing. Then he lifts his face up and finds Pony's mouth with his own, kissing hir wetly and chasing the flavor of hir lip gloss with his tongue, 'til ze pulls gently away and turns to Ray to kiss him too.

Mikey lets hir go eventually, regretfully, then watches as ze drops down on one knee in front of Max. "You'll look after my boys for me 'til I get back?" ze asks.

Max nods wordlessly then wraps herself around Pony, hugging hir tight around the shoulders. "Come back _soon_ ," she says, then sniffs and wipes her face with the back of her arm.

"I will, honey, I will," Pony says. And with that, ze gives Max one last squeeze and pushes herself back up onto hir skates, spins around once, and is off down the highway. Mikey watches hir 'til ze disappears into the darkness, and then climbs back into the car.

* * *

 _Hir throat's raw and hir lungs are burning, but there's only a mile or so to go. Ze's been counting signposts and surveillance cams and ze knows this road, every crack and pothole and pile of dust, so even though ze's exhausted, numb with the effort and the road vibrating up through hir wheels, ze knows when to veer left to avoid a rough patch or how much speed to build on a downhill stretch to make it to the top of the next hill._

 _There's a Joshua tree hung with ribbons about a quarter mile out from the garage. Pony hung them there with LynZ one morning, after a night spent under the stars. They're faded, pink and yellow and white-that-used-to-be-blue, but they serve as a signpost. It's home, or close as ze's had in a long time. Ze puts on an extra spurt of speed, adjusts hir grip on the record ze's got tucked under hir arm._

 _There's nothing moving round Doc's place, but ze can hear his voice from inside as ze pushes aside the boards covering the back door. Ze lets them drop behind hir, not minding the noise; what ze's carrying'll forgive any sins. Ze spins and lands on the desk beside Doc, hir feet going out from under hir as ze pulls the vinyl from its sleeve and hands it to him._

 _Doc's a pro. He drops it on the turntable and sets it spinning, doesn't let up his patter for even a second. They'll have time to catch up later; for now, he's got his lips to the mic, calling out to everyone who's been waiting to hear the music:_

 _"Look alive, sunshine. One-oh-nine in the sky but the pigs won't quit. You're here with me, Doctor Death Defying. I'll be your surgeon, your proctor, your helicopter, pumping out the slaughtermatic sounds to keep you live. A system failure for the masses, anti-matter for the master-plan, louder than god's revolver and twice and shiny. This one's for all you rock-n-rollers, all you crash queens and motorbabies. Listen up! The future is bulletproof. The aftermath is secondary. It's time to do it now and do it loud. Killjoys, make some noise!"_

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out the [fanart by kidsxheroes](http://sassbandit.livejournal.com/535.html) and the fanmixes, [Face What You Fear by bittersweetrick](http://sassbandit.livejournal.com/895.html) and [Draculoids and Polar Bears by maggiebloome](http://sassbandit.livejournal.com/1272.html), and give our artist and mixers some love!


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